Mourn, Africa! your oldest, noblest sage
Sleeps the long sleep. Your noblest? Aye! for he
Whose name the roll of true nobility
Next heads, may well be proud. How bright a page
His history fills. The Franklin of our age,
Who wrought for Truth, for Liberty, and Light.
The aim of all his fourscore years and ten
Was “Peace on earth and good will towards men;”
Right for the wrongèd weak—for wronging right
Confusion. How he strove with sword, tongue, pen,
As soldier, statesman, writer! giving all
The glorious dower of his heart and brain
To us and God: until He took again
The life, which could we, we would fain recall.
The measure of his influence who can tell?—
We know not whether from that distant home
To which th’ All-Wise has ta’en him, he may come
In spirit to the land he served so well.
But this we know:—The good that he has wrought,
Th’ examples set, the lessons he has taught,
As scattered seed on Time’s e’er-rolling flood
Immortal are, and can but work us good.
H. W. Bidwell.
THE DIAMOND DIGGER.
ON FINDING HIS FIRST LARGE DIAMOND.
(From the drama “I. D. B.”)
What change of luck! O Fortune! they have well
Compared thee to a woman;—ever flying,
But luring on, when Hope-led we pursue;—
And when we scorn thee, coming back, all smiles,
O’erwhelming us with richest, choicest favours.
(Looks at the diamond.) Can it be real?—Can I believe my eyes?
A gem like thee would grace a monarch’s crown;
Aye! and would buy his empire from him too.
For smaller and less precious gems than thee
Have monarchs been betrayed and empires sold.
For less than thee, Beauties, whose hearts of steel
Not all the worship of true love could move,
Have given their charms to arms they else had loathed.
But oh! thou glittering bauble! Canst thou buy
One sigh of pure affection! one small grain
Of Truth?—Call back the loved ones gone?
Give respite to the wretch condemned to die?
Or win redemption for a soul that’s lost?
Ah, no! Truth is the bright, pure gem!
Compared with her thou’rt very dross indeed.
Yet thou art mine! mine! mine! my own!
Mine only! And as yet no other eyes
But mine have gazed upon thy dazzling splendour.
How strange it seems that thou who hast lain hid
Down in the very heart of Earth; and in
The very womb, as ’twere, of hoary Time,
Cycles long, long ere History was born,
Now comest forth, like some new-chos’n Sultana
From the zenana’s gloom, where all her light,
Her glory, and her beauty, blazed in vain!
The fabled Sleeping Beauty sure thou wert!
I the proud Prince whose vivifying touch
Called thee to light and gave thy splendour life;—
The thought is overpowering; and the feeling
With which I call thee mine is not all joy.
I’ve heard how gems like thee, which it has cost
The owners years of patient toil to win,
Have caused their death when won;—that woe, not bliss,
Have followed their possession; and a thrill
While now I clutch thee seemeth to forebode
Some coming evil. Were it known I go
About with a king’s ransom in my pocket,
My life would not be safe. No! I must hide
Thee as a thief would hide his stolen prize.
H. W. Bidwell.
THE LAST OF THE BOWKERS.
A DIRGE.
Alas! Is it true that the great R. M. Bowker
No longer in Parliament covets a place?
But follows his brethren—this gigantic joker?
The greatest—the last of a very slow race.
First Thomas the tartar; then William the wailer,
Knocked under; they couldn’t keep pace with the age.
Now the last of the trio, great Robert the railer,
Has made his Bow curtly and gone from the stage.