Thro' dreary miles of foul eternal swamp,
And over lonely leagues of burning sand,
He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp,
And Truth his sword held as in giant's hand.
His lot was as his sorrowing Master's lot,
Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head;
"My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot;
Build me a hut—wherein—to die," he said.
"Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore.
Farewell, my loved ones, far o'er ocean's foam;
Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore,"
He looked to Heaven and cried, "I'm going home."
Home, sweetest word that ever man has made,
Home, after weariness and toil and pain;
Home to his Father's house all unafraid,
Home to his rest, no more to weep again.
How found they him, this hero of all time?
Dead on his knees, as if at last he said:
"Into thy hands, O God!" with faith sublime;
And death looked on, scarce knowing he was dead.
O British land, that breedeth sturdy men,
Be proud to hold our hero's honoured bones;
Land that he wrought for with his life and pen,
Write, write his glory in enduring stones.
Tell how he lived and died, how fought and fell,
So in the world's glad future, looming dim;
The children of the lands he loved so well,
Shall learn his name and love to honour him.
IN SWANAGE BAY.
BY MRS. CRAIK.
"'Twas five-and-forty year ago,
Just such another morn,
The fishermen were on the beach,
The reapers in the corn;
My tale is true, young gentlemen,
As sure as you were born.