THE DEAD LEADER.
JUNE 10, 1891.
Let the sad drums mutter low,And the serried ranks move slow,And the thousand hearts beat hushed along the street;For a mighty heart is still,And a great, unconquered will,Hath passed to meet the conqueror all must meet.Outworn without assoilFrom a great life’s lengthened toil,Laurelled with a half a century’s fame;From the care and adulationTo the heart-throb of the nationHe hath passed to be a memory and a name.With banners draped and furled,’Mid the sorrow of a world,We lay him down with fitting pomp and state,With slumber in his breast,To his long, eternal restWe lay him down, this man who made us great.Him of the wider vision,Who had one hope, elysian,To mould a mighty empire toward the west;Who through the hostile years,’Mid the wrangling words, like spears,Still bore this titan vision in his breast.God gave this highest honourTo the nation, that upon herHe was spared to lay the magic of his hand;Then to live to see the greatnessOf his noble works, completeness,Then to pass to rest belovèd by his land.We stand at death’s dim gatesWhere his mighty soul awaitsSomewhere the long, long silence of the years.And the marble of his lipsDoth all our woe eclipse,Death’s awful peace rolls back upon our tears.Greater than all sorrowThat our hearts can borrow;Loftier than our fleeting, human praise,He hath calmness, great and grim,That death hath granted him,The wisest and the mightiest of our days.Let the sad drums mutter low,And the serried ranks move slow,And the thousand hearts beat hushed along the street;For a mighty heart is still,And a great, unconquered will,Hath passed to meet the conqueror all must meet.
Let the sad drums mutter low,And the serried ranks move slow,And the thousand hearts beat hushed along the street;For a mighty heart is still,And a great, unconquered will,Hath passed to meet the conqueror all must meet.Outworn without assoilFrom a great life’s lengthened toil,Laurelled with a half a century’s fame;From the care and adulationTo the heart-throb of the nationHe hath passed to be a memory and a name.With banners draped and furled,’Mid the sorrow of a world,We lay him down with fitting pomp and state,With slumber in his breast,To his long, eternal restWe lay him down, this man who made us great.Him of the wider vision,Who had one hope, elysian,To mould a mighty empire toward the west;Who through the hostile years,’Mid the wrangling words, like spears,Still bore this titan vision in his breast.God gave this highest honourTo the nation, that upon herHe was spared to lay the magic of his hand;Then to live to see the greatnessOf his noble works, completeness,Then to pass to rest belovèd by his land.We stand at death’s dim gatesWhere his mighty soul awaitsSomewhere the long, long silence of the years.And the marble of his lipsDoth all our woe eclipse,Death’s awful peace rolls back upon our tears.Greater than all sorrowThat our hearts can borrow;Loftier than our fleeting, human praise,He hath calmness, great and grim,That death hath granted him,The wisest and the mightiest of our days.Let the sad drums mutter low,And the serried ranks move slow,And the thousand hearts beat hushed along the street;For a mighty heart is still,And a great, unconquered will,Hath passed to meet the conqueror all must meet.
Let the sad drums mutter low,And the serried ranks move slow,And the thousand hearts beat hushed along the street;For a mighty heart is still,And a great, unconquered will,Hath passed to meet the conqueror all must meet.
Outworn without assoilFrom a great life’s lengthened toil,Laurelled with a half a century’s fame;From the care and adulationTo the heart-throb of the nationHe hath passed to be a memory and a name.
With banners draped and furled,’Mid the sorrow of a world,We lay him down with fitting pomp and state,With slumber in his breast,To his long, eternal restWe lay him down, this man who made us great.
Him of the wider vision,Who had one hope, elysian,To mould a mighty empire toward the west;Who through the hostile years,’Mid the wrangling words, like spears,Still bore this titan vision in his breast.God gave this highest honourTo the nation, that upon herHe was spared to lay the magic of his hand;Then to live to see the greatnessOf his noble works, completeness,Then to pass to rest belovèd by his land.
We stand at death’s dim gatesWhere his mighty soul awaitsSomewhere the long, long silence of the years.And the marble of his lipsDoth all our woe eclipse,Death’s awful peace rolls back upon our tears.
Greater than all sorrowThat our hearts can borrow;Loftier than our fleeting, human praise,He hath calmness, great and grim,That death hath granted him,The wisest and the mightiest of our days.
Let the sad drums mutter low,And the serried ranks move slow,And the thousand hearts beat hushed along the street;For a mighty heart is still,And a great, unconquered will,Hath passed to meet the conqueror all must meet.
Transcriber's Notes:The cover image was created by the transcriber, and is in the public domain.Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected.Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.Some poems in the original had a full page identifying the poem as well as a heading at the beginning of the poem. The full page poem headings have been removed from this edition as being redundant.
Transcriber's Notes:
The cover image was created by the transcriber, and is in the public domain.
Uncertain or antiquated spellings or ancient words were not corrected.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
Some poems in the original had a full page identifying the poem as well as a heading at the beginning of the poem. The full page poem headings have been removed from this edition as being redundant.