List! there is music sounding!
Not airy strains, that lead the mazy dance;
Not trumpet tones, that stir the warrior’s soul;
But soft, and slow, and solemn, as it swells
And rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoes
From vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted,
Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow rays
Gleam in their varied glory o’er the scene.
’Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dust
Of those whom Britain loves to honour, who
Shed living honour by their deeds on her,
Challenging place upon the rolls of Fame.
Sages, and saints, and sons of song lie there;
Wresters of Nature’s secrets;—senators,
Whose thund’rous eloquence could awe the world;
Patriots whose lifeblood for their country flowed;
War chiefs who led her armies on to glory;
Statesmen with eye far-reaching, who could thread
Diplomacy’s dark mazes, and, the helm
With firm hand grasping, steer the nation’s bark
Through storms of strife to honour and to peace.
And royalty’s proud dust lies mouldering there,
’Neath sculptured marbles, or midst gilded shrines:
While high o’erhead the ancient banners droop.—
Monarchs of other days,—of other ages,
Successive generations of the great,
Who ruled the realm of England as she grew
From isolate obscurity to greatness
That with a fame undying fills the world.

Lo! there,—an open grave! and heads are bare,
And bent;—and bosoms heave, and tears are falling
From youthful womanhood,—from hoary age.
Men weep, as slowly through the reverent throng
Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form,
Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier
Stand silently the great of many lands.
Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of men
Of other realms stand there by envoy. There
The sons of science gather, and the friends
Of light and liberty. The Churches’ messengers
Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng,
Crowding around, sigh forth a nation’s sympathy.
Tokens of reverent love,—azalea wreaths,
Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined,
Bright immortelles, branches of Afric’s palm,—
(Symbol of triumph e’en in death) are there.
And,—honour to the honour’d!—Britain’s Queen
Sign of “respect and admiration” sends,—
Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral gifts
To deck the bier.
And who is it that thus
Draws to himself, in death, the eyes of nations?
Is it some warrior leader, who has died
In the proud hour of victory; and, wept
By a whole people’s tears, lies down to rest?
—Or is it one who, in a nation’s peril,
Has earned a nation’s gratitude by wise
And warning counsels in her council halls?
—Is it a Prince has died? That royalty
Should sigh her grief, and nobles weep around?

’Tis Livingstone!—That name a thousand tongues
Through years of hope and fear alternate, uttered;
While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds,
Solving her mystery of ages, trod
Her deserts, traced her streams,—a pioneer
Of science, commerce, liberty, and mercy.
—A “weaver boy” thus honoured!—Wherefore not?
He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet;
Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But “stamp” of “rank”[15]
He needed not, while Nature’s “gold” of manhood,
Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul.

The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearned
O’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for his own soul,
By “grace of God” emancipated, longed
To free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit”
Of those who were immortal as himself,
And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue.
He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plains
Where wandering tribes by Moffat gathered dwelt;
And preached the Cross’s story in the tongues
Strange to his earlier years.—But as he stood,
And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s foot
Had never trod, fresh longings filled his soul.
—“Millions dwell yonder:—all unknown to us,
They live and die in darkness: and they groan
In bitter bondage, where no ray of hope
Shines through the gloom.—I go to find the way:—
Let others follow.”
And he went,—alone;
And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds,
The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang:
He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun,
The mountain torrent, and the savage spear.
Barbarian wonder followed in his steps;
And treachery shrank before the magic power
Of Christian kindness, single and unarmed.
He vanished from our sight,—and time rolled on
While he was lost from view.
At length was heard
Rumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknown
Had spread their silver waters to his gaze;
And mighty streams, through vales all green and glorious
Poured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts,
Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear.
“From ocean through to ocean” tropic realms
Were traversed with unfaltering footsteps, till
Regions before unknown, with all their wonders
Rose into view, and hidden tr

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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