To D. A. Mackellar Poem by Peter McArthur

My cherished dead, when last your placid brow
I saw through tears and ne'er on earth again,
With trembling lips I made a holy vow
To show our love in a remembered strain,
In self-defeated discord of the streets
Where life had called us when our hearts were
strong,
Where friend a friend so true but seldom greets,
I heard a voice of unrecorded song.
With such poor means as are by nature mine
And faith that raised me from despairing gloom,
Today I come as to a sacred shrine
And lay this tribute on your lowly tomb,
And plead, if any question or admire
The living do but what the dead inspire.