Thou too, child, draw near and lay

Thy little hands on this cold clay;

Though thy help may not be much,

Thy sire shall feel thy loving touch.

Help to raise this prostrate form.

These limbs are cold, yet still the warm

Veins from the heart and wounded side

Jet forth their dark ensanguined tide.

Haste, each who claims the name of friend,

Haste one and all the dead to tend

With service due. Since time began

There lived on earth no nobler man.

Wisdom still by seeing grows,

But no man the unseen knows.

Shall he fare or ill or well

Who of mortals can foretell?