VIII. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Him who cares not to be great, But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story, Not once or twice in our fair island-story, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled To which our God himself is moon and sun. Such was he: his work is done. But while the races of mankind endure, Let his great example stand Colossal, seen of every land, And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure; And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame For many and many an age proclaim At civic revel and pomp and game, And when the long-illumined cities flame, Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, Eternal honor to his name. IX. Peace, his triumph will be sung By some yet unmoulded tongue Far on in summers that we shall not see: Peace, it is a day of pain For one about whose patriarchal knee Late the little children clung: O peace, it is a day of pain For one upon whose hand and heart and brain Ours the pain, be his the gain! We revere, From talk of battles loud and vain, As befits a solemn fane: We revere, and while we hear The tides of Music's golden sea Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, For though the Giant Ages heave the hill Make and break, and work their will; What know we greater than the soul? On God and Godlike men we build our trust. The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; He is gone who seemed so great. Gone; but nothing can bereave him any wreath that man can weave him. And in the vast cathedral leave him. EAK-WINGED is song, Nor aims at that clear-ethered height Bringing our robin's-leaf to deck their hearse II. To-day our Reverend Mother welcomes back The deeper teaching of her mystic tome, No science peddling with the names of things, Can lift our life with wings Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits, With that clear fame whose memory sings In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates: Not such thy teaching, Mother of us all! Not such the trumpet-call Of thy diviner mood, That could thy sons entice From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest The But rather far that stern device sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood The VERITAS that lurks beneath The letter's unprolific sheath, Life of whate'er makes life worth living, Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food, One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving. III. Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. |