Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/137

 THE FUNERAL OF LIVINGSTONE.

! 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 life-blood 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.