MEMORIAL TO JEFFREY ROCHE.

On May 31, 1909, a beautiful tablet was dedicated to Jeffrey Roche and the exercises in connection therewith in Holyhood cemetery, Brookline, Mass., were attended by hundreds who had known and loved the editor, poet and author. The eloquent eulogy was pronounced by Mr. Joseph Smith, one of the founders of our Society, and a devoted admirer of Mr. Roche.

The huge granite memorial was the gift of the John Boyle O’Reilly Club and bore a bronze plate with the following inscription in Gothic capitals:

Beneath This Stone Rests
All that is mortal of
James Jeffrey Roche.
Born Mountmellick, Ireland,
31st May, 1847.
Died at Berne, Switzerland,
3d April, 1908,
An American Consul.

A writer—he gave freely of his genius to humanity that the strong might be restrained, the weak strengthened and right might reign; a poet—patriotism, heroism and justice were the burden of his song; and author—his kindly wit and gentle satire were turned on folly and hypocrisy; an editor—his pen fought stoutly for the oppressed and persecuted of all races and creeds; a man—he never surrendered his principles to temptation, keeping his conscience clear and his mind free.

This tablet is erected by his friends, who loved and admired him in life and mourn and honor him in death.

May He Rest in Peace.
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE,
Born in Mountmellick, Ireland, May 31, 1847.
Died in Berne, Switzerland, April 3, 1908.
Under the skies of that brave mountain land,
Where Alpine shepherds feudal might defied,
Where struggling freedom warring cent’ries spanned,
There in the shadows of the hills he died.
The whisp’ring woods to murm’ring rills gave voice,
The snowy heights caught faint the lowlands’ sighs,
Dead Pan returned and bade his hosts rejoice,
For Heav’n is richer when a singer dies.
He died as dies some long sweet summer day,
When fruits are golden on the burdened trees;
The sun’s pale glory on the sky’s blue gray,
And night comes fragrant on the cooling breeze.
They brought him home and laid him down to rest,
To sleep forever in his narrow bed,
Amid the scenes and friends that he loved best,
At rest forever with his sacred dead.
Like the red roses that have bloomed and died,
Whose withered sweetness scents each hallowed nook,
Shall the dead singer’s spirit still abide
To hush dissension and pale hate rebuke.
—Joseph Smith.