Frances Laughton Mace (1836–1899)

AS one by one the singers of our land,

Summoned away by death’s unfailing dart,

Unto the greater mystery depart,

Sadly we watch them from the desolate strand.

Oh! who shall fill their places in the band

Of tuneful voices? Who with equal art

Speak the unwritten language of the heart,

And the mute signs of Nature understand?

Yet poetry from earth has never ceased;

It is a fire perpetual, which has caught

Its flame from off the altar-place of Heaven.

Never has failed, in darkest days, a priest

Who, by no price of gain or glory bought,

For his soul’s peace his life to song has given.