Lord Randolph Churchill.
Born, February 13, 1849.
Died, January 24, 1895.
Gone!—like a meteor whelmed in night,
Who should have shone as fame's fixed star!
Unwelcome loss, when sons of light
So few and so infrequent are.
To flare athwart the startled sky,
A prodigy portentous, fills
The vision of the vulgar eye,
The common soul with wonder thrills.
And much of meteoric glare
Seemed herald of that steadier course,
Which, drawing less the general stare,
Spoke to the wise of light and force.
Now all's extinct in early gloom,
Eclipsed in shadow premature.
A brilliant soul, a bitter doom!
And who shall read with judgment sure
The secret of the light that failed,
The mystery of the fallen star?
Though whilom worshippers have railed,
Though clingers to the conqueror's car
Reviled a vanquished victor's name,
The brightness of that brief career
Defies the dullards who defame,
Confounds the incompetents who sneer.
But yesterday, in sooth it seems,
The promise of the platform's pride
Inspired a Party's youthful dreams,
And filled to flood their hope's high tide.
Now all is hushed,—save the sad voice
Of admiration and regret,
Which, spite of faction's spleenful noise,
Ne'er failed stout son of England yet!
He took a house in Hampshire. Why? Because he said he liked to visit his old Hants.