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 m.u.f.fled 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 n.o.ble part, And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.
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 sh.o.r.e,"
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 G.o.d!" with faith sublime; And death looked on, scarce knowing he was dead.
O British land, that breedeth st.u.r.dy 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.
"My tale"s all true, young gentlemen,"
The fond old boatman cried Unto the sullen, angry lads, Who vain obedience tried: "Mind what your father says to you, And don"t go out this tide.
"Just such a shiny sea as this, Smooth as a pond, you"d say, And white gulls flying, and the crafts Down Channel making way; And the Isle of Wight, all glittering bright, Seen clear from Swanage Bay.
"The Battery Point, the Race beyond, Just as to-day you see; This was, I think, the very stone Where sat d.i.c.k, Dolly, and me; She was our little sister, sirs, A small child, just turned three.
"And d.i.c.k was mighty fond of her: Though a big lad and bold, He"d carry her like any nurse, Almost from birth, I"m told; For mother sickened soon, and died When Doll was eight months old.
"We sat and watched a little boat, Her name the "Tricksy Jane,"
A queer old tub laid up ash.o.r.e, But we could see her plain.
To see her and not haul her up Cost us a deal of pain.
"Said d.i.c.k to me, "Let"s have a pull; Father will never know: He"s busy in his wheat up there, And cannot see us go; These landsmen are such cowards if A puff of wind does blow.
""I"ve been to France and back three times-- Who knows best, dad or me, Whether a ship"s seaworthy or not?
Dolly, wilt go to sea?"
And Dolly laughed and hugged him tight, As pleased as she could be.
"I don"t mean, sirs, to blame poor d.i.c.k: What he did, sure I"d do; And many a sail in "Tricksy Jane"
We"d had when she was new.
Father was always sharp; and what He said, he meant it too.
"But now the sky had not a cloud, The bay looked smooth as gla.s.s; Our d.i.c.k could manage any boat, As neat as ever was.
And Dolly crowed, "Me go to sea!"
The jolly little la.s.s!
"Well, sirs, we went: a pair of oars; My jacket for a sail: Just round "Old Harry and his Wife"-- Those rocks there, within hail; And we came back.----D"ye want to hear The end o" the old man"s tale?
"Ay, ay, we came back past that point, But then a. breeze up-sprung; d.i.c.k shouted, "Hoy! down sail!" and pulled With all his might among The white sea-horses that upreared So terrible and strong.
"I pulled too: I was blind with fear; But I could hear d.i.c.k"s breath Coming and going, as he told Dolly to creep beneath His jacket, and not hold him so: We rowed for life or death.
"We almost reached the sheltered bay, We could see father stand Upon the little jetty here, His sickle in his hand; The houses white, the yellow fields, The safe and pleasant land.
"And d.i.c.k, though pale as any ghost, Had only said to me, "We"re all right now, old lad!" when up A wave rolled--drenched us three-- One lurch, and then I felt the chill And roar of blinding sea.
"I don"t remember much but that: You see I"m safe and sound; I have been wrecked four times since then-- Seen queer sights, I"ll be bound.
I think folks sleep beneath the deep As calm as underground."
"But d.i.c.k and Dolly?" "Well, Poor d.i.c.k!
I saw him rise and cling Unto the gunwale of the boat-- Floating keel up--and sing Out loud, "Where"s Doll?"--I hear him yet As clear as anything.
""Where"s Dolly?" I no answer made; For she dropped like a stone Down through the deep sea; and it closed: The little thing was gone!
"Where"s Doll?" three times; then d.i.c.k loosed hold, And left me there alone.
"It"s five-and-forty year since then,"