Heedless of others, some there are
Who all their days employ
To raise themselves, no matter how,
And better men destroy.
How different is the mind of him
Whose deeds themselves are told,
Who values worth more nobler far
Than all the heaps of gold.
No empty titles ever could
His principles subdue;
His queen and country, too, he loved,
Was loyal and was true:
He craved no boon from royalty,
Nor wished their pomp to share;
For nobler is the soul of him,
The Founder of Saltaire.
I may venture to say that I have had a valued friend in Mr Butterfield, of Bonnie Cliffe Castle and fair Marianna, Nice; also in Sir Isaac Holden, Bart, M.P., Dr Dobie, Keighley, and other gentlemen. I have had a letter, commending my rhyme, from Sir Albert K. Rollit; and other communications with respect to the outpouring of my muse from Mr Archie Laidlaw, of Edinburgh; Councillor Burgess, of Congleton, Cheshire, &c. I was privileged to claim the late Rev J. Room, M.A., as an especial friend, and may say that of all the times I shook hands with him I scarcely ever withdrew my hand without finding “something” in it. Mr Room’s last request to me was that I would write seven verses—and only seven, he said—on the death of his dear, beloved wife. I promised to do so, but (partly through my dilatoriness, I must admit) the rev gentleman did not live to receive the verses. During the past few days, however, I have written the following verses on
THE LATE REV. J. ROOM, M.A.
John Room! he is dead and is buried;
There is mourning the whole village through,
And all the people who knew him
Are loth to bid him adieu.
’Tis true he was filled with compassion;
God’s nature in him over-flowed;
He knew all the people with burdens,
And strove hard to lighten their load.
His dress it were plain and quite common,
No pride in him could you trace;
Yet you knew that he was a good parson
Whenever you looked in his face.
The worst things his foes knew about him—
He was fond of satire or joke,
Writing some verses of rhythm,
Which always amused the folk.
Whene’er he walked into the pulpit,
He bowed for a moment in prayer,
Every soul in the temple grew thirsty;—
The true Christian spirit was there.
His likes there are few in the nation,
(I wish in my heart there were more;
For it wants something else besides learning,
To grapple the hearts of the poor.)
’Tis true he was high up in learning
The secrets of nations long dead;
But he cared more for those who were yearning
Sad tears round the sufferer’s bed.