"In my life I have striven to live so worthily that at my death I may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me."
| Thus Alfred spake,
whose days were beads of prayer Upon the rosary of his royal time, Who let "I do" wait not upon "I dare," Yet both with duty kept in golden chime, Who, great in victory, greater in defeat, Greatest in strenuous peace, still suffering, planned From Ashdown's field to Athelney's lone retreat Upward for aye to lift his little land. Therefore the seed of his most fruitful sowing, A thousand years gone by, on earth and sea, From slender strength to stately empire growing Hath given our isle great continents in fee. For which on Alfred's death-day each true heart Goes out in praise of his immortal part. |
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
| Strong Son of
Fergus, with thy latest breath Thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell, Welcoming with thy whispered "All is well!" The awful aspect of the Angel Death. As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun The heat and burthen of the fiery day, Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay, And wearing meekly honours stoutly won. Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye Erin demanded from her bards of old, And, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold Has waked once more her high heroic lay. What shoulders now shall match the mighty fold Of Ossian's mantle? Thou hast passed away. |