LIVINGSTONE.
Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874.
BY HENRY LLOYD.
With solemn march and slow a soldier comes,
In conquest fallen; home we bring him dead;
Stand silent by, beat low the muffled drums,
Uncover ye, and bow the reverent head.
Where ghostly echoes dwell and grey light falls,
Where Kings and Heroes rest in honoured sleep;
Their names steel bitten on the sacred walls,
Inter his dust, while England bends to weep.
Stir not ye Kings and Heroes in your rest,
Lest these poor bones dishonour such as you;
This man was both, though nodding plume or crest
Ne'er waved above his eye so bright and true.
By no sad orphan is his name abhorred,
A hero, yet no battered shield he brings.
Nor on his bier a blood encrusted sword;
Nor as his trophies Kings, nor crowns of Kings.
War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well,
Armed by Heaven's King from Heaven's armoury;
And this dead man was one, who fought and fell,
Life less his choice, than death and victory.
To do his work with purpose iron strong,
To loose the captive, set the prisoner free;
To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrong
Kept festering by greed and cruelty;
Love on his banner, Pity in his heart;
His lofty soul moved on with single aim;
'Mid deadly perils bore a noble part,
And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.