Memory Of W. W. Browne Poem by James Ephraim McGirt

Dear father Browne, the great, the good,
The noble leader of our race;
With task complete his spirit fled
To he'ven its final resting place.
And there in peace it shall remain,
Securely wrapped from care and pain;
His body 'neath sweet roses sleeps,
Around his grave his friends do weep.

Weeping for one so dearly loved,
Too soon it seems we had to part;
To see him hid beneath the clay,
Sharp sorrow fills the aching heart.
It seems I see him on the stand,
Fain I could hear him give command;
And with his outstretched, loving arm,
Emploring people to reform.

Think of the great work he has done,
Behold the great reformer's hand;
Ten thousand marching to and fro,
To seek, to help, to lend a hand.
Thy life hast not been spent in vain,
Thy deeds are monuments of fame;
Thy name from earth shall ne'er depart,
'Tis 'graved with kindness on the heart.

No more to meet us hear on earth,
The noble impulse thou hast given;
Will urge us on the mighty course,
Until we too are called to he'ven.
Beneath the clods is it the last,
Oh no, the memory of the past;
As Bethlehem star the wise men led,
His light will lead us though he's dead.