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116 But all fair colours of the many nations In harbour, flying low from many a mast, And minute guns, and muffled voice of bells, With reverent silence of assembling throngs, And mourning emblems in the public ways, Mournfully tell of how the hero comes!

Now yet a little further carry him. Westminster opens wide her ancient doors For more illustrious dust to enter in. Honour the noble Scottish weaver-boy, The lowly-born illustrious Livingstone! With solemn music we will leave him here, Among the ashes of our mighty fallen. Behold! world-honour'd Shades that haunt the fane, Statesman, or monarch, poet, soldier, sage— The while he moves along their awful line To his own hallow'd English sepulchre; From yon far forest of lone Muilala Moves to more glorious glooms of Westminster— Bend in a grand reverent humility