FUNERAL OF DR. LIVINGSTONE (1874).Source.—Punch, April 25, 1874. (Reprinted by the special permission of the proprietors ofPunch.)David Livingstone, Died on the Shores of Lake Bemba, May 4, 1873; Buried in Westminster Abbey, April 18, 1874.Droop half-mast colours, bow, bareheaded crowdsAs this plain coffin o’er the side is slung,To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shroudsAs erst by Afric’s trunks, liana-hung.’Tis the last mile of many thousands trodWith failing strength but never-failing willBy the worn frame, now at its rest with God,That never rested from its fight with ill.Or if the ache of travel and of toilWould sometimes wring a short, sharp cry of painFrom agony of fever, blain, and boil,’Twas but to crush it down, and on again.He knew not that the trumpet he had blownOut of the darkness of that dismal land,Had reached and roused an army of its ownTo strike the chains from the slave’s fettered hand.Now we believe he knows, sees all is well;How God had stayed his will and shaped his way,To bring the light to those that darkling dwellWith gains that life’s devotion will repay.Open the Abbey door and bear him inTo sleep with King and statesman, chief and sage,The missionary come of weaver-kin,But great by work that brooks no lower wage.He needs no epitaph to guard a nameWhich men shall prize while worthy work is knownHe lived and died for good—be that his fame;Let marble crumble: this is Living-stone.
FUNERAL OF DR. LIVINGSTONE (1874).
Source.—Punch, April 25, 1874. (Reprinted by the special permission of the proprietors ofPunch.)
Droop half-mast colours, bow, bareheaded crowdsAs this plain coffin o’er the side is slung,To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shroudsAs erst by Afric’s trunks, liana-hung.’Tis the last mile of many thousands trodWith failing strength but never-failing willBy the worn frame, now at its rest with God,That never rested from its fight with ill.Or if the ache of travel and of toilWould sometimes wring a short, sharp cry of painFrom agony of fever, blain, and boil,’Twas but to crush it down, and on again.He knew not that the trumpet he had blownOut of the darkness of that dismal land,Had reached and roused an army of its ownTo strike the chains from the slave’s fettered hand.Now we believe he knows, sees all is well;How God had stayed his will and shaped his way,To bring the light to those that darkling dwellWith gains that life’s devotion will repay.Open the Abbey door and bear him inTo sleep with King and statesman, chief and sage,The missionary come of weaver-kin,But great by work that brooks no lower wage.He needs no epitaph to guard a nameWhich men shall prize while worthy work is knownHe lived and died for good—be that his fame;Let marble crumble: this is Living-stone.
Droop half-mast colours, bow, bareheaded crowdsAs this plain coffin o’er the side is slung,To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shroudsAs erst by Afric’s trunks, liana-hung.’Tis the last mile of many thousands trodWith failing strength but never-failing willBy the worn frame, now at its rest with God,That never rested from its fight with ill.Or if the ache of travel and of toilWould sometimes wring a short, sharp cry of painFrom agony of fever, blain, and boil,’Twas but to crush it down, and on again.He knew not that the trumpet he had blownOut of the darkness of that dismal land,Had reached and roused an army of its ownTo strike the chains from the slave’s fettered hand.Now we believe he knows, sees all is well;How God had stayed his will and shaped his way,To bring the light to those that darkling dwellWith gains that life’s devotion will repay.Open the Abbey door and bear him inTo sleep with King and statesman, chief and sage,The missionary come of weaver-kin,But great by work that brooks no lower wage.He needs no epitaph to guard a nameWhich men shall prize while worthy work is knownHe lived and died for good—be that his fame;Let marble crumble: this is Living-stone.
Droop half-mast colours, bow, bareheaded crowdsAs this plain coffin o’er the side is slung,To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shroudsAs erst by Afric’s trunks, liana-hung.
’Tis the last mile of many thousands trodWith failing strength but never-failing willBy the worn frame, now at its rest with God,That never rested from its fight with ill.
Or if the ache of travel and of toilWould sometimes wring a short, sharp cry of painFrom agony of fever, blain, and boil,’Twas but to crush it down, and on again.
He knew not that the trumpet he had blownOut of the darkness of that dismal land,Had reached and roused an army of its ownTo strike the chains from the slave’s fettered hand.
Now we believe he knows, sees all is well;How God had stayed his will and shaped his way,To bring the light to those that darkling dwellWith gains that life’s devotion will repay.
Open the Abbey door and bear him inTo sleep with King and statesman, chief and sage,The missionary come of weaver-kin,But great by work that brooks no lower wage.
He needs no epitaph to guard a nameWhich men shall prize while worthy work is knownHe lived and died for good—be that his fame;Let marble crumble: this is Living-stone.