  Dedicated to Mrs. Mary Anderson Navarro, London. I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand—his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony. —Childe Harold. The Eternal City, shrine of many lands, Slow fades; before his dying gaze expands The Golden-streeted City, not made with hands; Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes, Heaven’s solemn choirs and sweet societies, While sobs below him the great church he trod— “To CÆsar, CÆsar’s; God’s we yield to God.” Life’s duty done, he ends his manly part, Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart; Amid a sorrowing people’s prayers and tears, God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years. Not for the lust of luxury and beauty, Not for the miser’s or the conqueror’s booty, But for the still small voice of duty Bravely did all temptation spurn The immortal Lion of Lucerne. The Lion is at rest, With his awe-inspiring crest, In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest. Of all earth’s mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best, His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross. Who gave mankind the Light Divine To save the world from loss. His grand life work is o’er, And nations now deplore The Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross, From Italy’s bay-indented shore To where Columbia’s eagles soar, Is heard the voice of weeping, For the Lion softly sleeping, The Lion of the Vatican, Who never feared the face of man— The mounting flames of glory burn; Who died in duty’s harness—the Lion of Lucerne. He sleeps, but not forsaken, For the Judgment trump shall blow, Its blast of joy or woe. The nations of the dead shall rise And the Lion of the Vatican shall waken. Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken! With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes, The kingdoms gather round the great white throne To hear the final sentence Of all who seek or scorn repentance. Long ere the dreadful conflagration Which shall consume each nation, Along each height or hollow shore, Loud shall reverberate the roar Which made the iron Bismarck bow Before the Lion’s calm, majestic brow; Which bade the hostile cannon cease And harmless pave the paths of peace, Who walked where princely Virgil trod And then like Enoch walked with God. Be patient, then, O Zion! And wait the wakening of the Lion Be patient still, for soon Thy God shall grant the boon Of universal peace; And War’s red banner shall be furled Throughout all the world. Paul Kruger’s diamond bribe The ransom of a hundred kings; Yet diamonds and pearls and all The riches of this world have wings; The Lion held God’s treasure fast— Honor and truth and Heaven at last. |
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