Thomas Bailey Aldrich

We celebrate with pomp and prideA Cromwell or a Wellington;We venerate who, self-denied,Earth's higher victories have won;But through the all-remembering years,We love who give us smiles and tears.

The voice that charmed us may grow still,The poet cease to weave his spell:Ascended to the skyey hillRemote, where the immortals dwell,—Time to our thought but more endearsWho gave us smiles and gave us tears.