Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
On the Death of Mr. Robert Levet, a Practiser in PhysicSamuel Johnson (17091784)
C
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline
Our social comforts drop away.
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of ev’ry friendless name the friend.
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter’d Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
And hov’ring death prepared the blow,
His vig’rous remedy display’d
The pow’r of art without the show.
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour’d his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.
No petty gain disdain’d by pride;
The modest wants of ev’ry day
The toil of ev’ry day supplied.
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th’ Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ’d.
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm—his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.