  What am I reading? He is dead? He the great interpreter And seer—England's noblest head? What am I reading? It is hushed? The deepest voice that life had found To read a century profound With all time's seethe and stir? Why, it is but a scanty score Of days, since, at his side, Clasping his hand with more than pride, I felt that the immortal tide Of his great mind would long break o'er The cold command of Death. Still in my ear is echoing Against the wild trees on the Hill His cottage sheltered under, I see the toss of his gray locks, Like Lear's—for he had felt the sting Of all too greatly giving The kingdom of his mind to those Who for it held him mad. O England, guard thy living Like him from a like fate! For not the mighty thunder Of thy proud name from all the rocks Of all the world can compensate A nation whom no Song makes glad, And whom no Seer makes great. THE END |
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