  Source.—Punch, April 25, 1874. (Reprinted by the special permission of the proprietors of Punch.) 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 crowds As this plain coffin o’er the side is slung, To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shrouds As erst by Afric’s trunks, liana-hung. ’Tis the last mile of many thousands trod With failing strength but never-failing will By 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 toil Would sometimes wring a short, sharp cry of pain From agony of fever, blain, and boil, ’Twas but to crush it down, and on again. He knew not that the trumpet he had blown Out of the darkness of that dismal land, Had reached and roused an army of its own To 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 dwell With gains that life’s devotion will repay. Open the Abbey door and bear him in To 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 name He lived and died for good—be that his fame; Let marble crumble: this is Living-stone. |
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