A Celtic Psaltery Part 25
Many a time the pa.s.ser-by enchained By their rapture to its close remained, And the churches joyfully agreed Their united choirs his skill should lead.
So in Handel's choruses sublime He would train them for the Christmas time; Mould their measures for the concert hall, Roll their thunders round the Castle wall.
Loving husband, tender father, quick To console the suffering and sick-- Christ to follow was his constant aim, Christ's own deacon ere he bore the name.
Widowed wife and children fatherless, Stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress-- Sorrow swept them all beneath its wave As his coffin sank into the grave.
But his Pastor's fervent voice went forth, Delicately dwelling on his worth, Urging his example, till at last Heavenly comfort o'er our grief he cast.
For his lonely ones we bowed in prayer, Sighed one hymn, and left him lying there, Whispering: "Lord, Thy will be done to-day, Thou didst give him, Thou hast taken away."
SAINT CUTHBERT
When once a winter storm upon the sh.o.r.es of Fife Drave Cuthbert; in despair, one fearful comrade saith: "To land in such a storm is certain loss of life!"
"Return," another cried, "by sea is equal death."
Then Cuthbert, "Earth and sea against us both are set, But friends, look up, for Heaven lies open to us yet."
ALFRED THE GREAT
A MILLENARY MEMORIAL
"In my life I have striven to live so worthily that at my death I may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me."
Thus Alfred spake, whose days were beads of prayer Upon the rosary of his royal time, Who let "I do" wait not upon "I dare,"
Yet both with duty kept in golden chime, Who, great in victory, greater in defeat, Greatest in strenuous peace, still suffering, planned From Ashdown's field to Athelney's lone retreat Upward for aye to lift his little land.
Therefore the seed of his most fruitful sowing, A thousand years gone by, on earth and sea, From slender strength to stately empire growing Hath given our isle great continents in fee.
For which on Alfred's death-day each true heart Goes out in praise of his immortal part.
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest breath Thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell, Welcoming with thy whispered "All is well!"
The awful aspect of the Angel Death.
As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun The heat and burthen of the fiery day, Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay, And wearing meekly honours stoutly won.
Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye Erin demanded from her bards of old, And, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold Has waked once more her high heroic lay.
What shoulders now shall match the mighty fold Of Ossian's mantle? Thou hast pa.s.sed away.
"MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY"
(On the home-coming of the London Regiments after the Boer War)
London Town, hear a ditty, While we crown our comrades true: "Men, not walls, make a City;"
Ill befalls when men are few,--
Ill indeed when from his duty Into greed the burgess falls, Every hand on bribe and booty-- How shall stand that City's walls?
Never yet upon thine annals Hath been writ such a shame; Never down such crooked channels, London Town, thy commerce came.
On the poor no tyrant burden, Debt secure and sacred trust, Honest gain and generous guerdon, These remain thy record just.
Therefore still through all thy story Loyal will thy train-bands led Forth to feats of patriot glory, Back through streets with bays o'erspread.
Therefore when the trumpet's warning Out again for battle rang, As of old all peril scorning, Forth thy bold young burghers sprang;
Faced the fight, endured the prison, Through the night of doubt and gloom, Till the Empire's star new risen Chased afar the clouds of doom.
Therefore, when their ranks came marching, Home again with flashing feet, Under bays of triumph arching City ways and City Street;
London, lift to G.o.d thanksgiving For His Gift that pa.s.ses all-- For thy heroes, dead and living, Who have made thy City Wall.
FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER
(June 13, 1916)
A sheet of foam is our great Soldier's shroud Beside the desolate Orkney's groaning caves; And we are desolate and groan aloud To know his body wandering with the waves Who when the thunder-cloud of battle hate Broke o'er us, through it towered, the while he bore Upon his t.i.tan shoulders a world weight Of doubt and danger none had brooked before.
For while incredulous friend and foe denied him Such possible prowess, Honour's blast he blew; And lo! as if from out the earth beside him, Army on army into order grew; Till need at last was none for our retreating, And back to Belgium and the front of France We bore, firm gathered for our foe's defeating Against the sounding of the Great Advance.
Few were his friends, yet closely round him cl.u.s.tered, But from five million Britons, who at his call Came uncompelled and round him sternly mustered, The sighs escape, the silent teardrops fall.
And not alone the Motherland is weeping Her great dead Captain but, The Seven Seas o'er, Daughter Dominions sorrow's watch are keeping, For he was theirs as her's in peace and war.
Yea, strong sage Botha, and that stern Cape Raider Whom first he fought then bound with friendship's bond-- Each now our own victorious Empire aider-- Lament his loss the sounding deeps beyond.
And India mourns her mightiest Soldier Warden, Egypt the Sirdar who her desert through
Laid iron lines of vengeance for our Gordon Till on the Madhi he swept, and struck and slew.