BOSTON yet looks on one bereavement -
one link with Brooklyn's woe,
A loss that meets not Time's retrievement - a
grief that will not go;
Impatient Death, with fiery breath, brushed off
a loved life's bloom,
Shrivelled its blossoming hopes, and swept them
down the hopeless tomb.
Of all who felt that fiendlike flame, that clutch
of cruel Fate,
None leaves a more endearing name, none hearts
more desolate,
Than we who mourn, untimely torn from work
of fame begun,
Our Harry Murdoch, genial Art and giftful
Nature's son.
Now round his memory trooping come hosts of
vanished friends -
There poor "Pierre " limps, slowly drooping -
here bold "Laertes" bends;
Sad, hand in hand, "Our Boys" return, but
wit no more beguiles,
"Antony" sings no more, and "Diedrich"
brings but tearful smiles.
O Winds that fanned Doom's vengefnl flame,
now moan for him you killed.
Waft our warm sorrow, with his fame, to home
and hearts now chilled;
With swift simoon of sympathy our praise, our
comfort carry.
And cry with Shakespeare - "Lord in Heaven
bless thee, noble Harry! "
1. Burned at Brooklyn Theatre when in the role of "Pierre" ill the
"Two Orphans."
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