In the Churchyard at Tarrytown

Here lies the gentle humorist, who died / In the bright Indian Summer of his fame! / A simple stone, with but a date and name, / Marks his secluded resting-place beside / The river that he loved and glorified. / Here in the autumn of his days he came, / But the dry leaves of life were all aflame / With tints that brightened and were multiplied. / How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! / Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, / Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; / Dying, to leave a memory like the breath / Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, / A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.