hate.

On the deck our noble Pilot, in the glory of his prime, Lies in woe-impelling silence, dead before his hour or time, Victim of a mind self-centred in a Godless fool of crime.

One of earth’s dissension-breeders, one of Hate’s unreasoning tools, In the annals of the ages, when the world’s hot anger cools, He who sought for Crime’s distinction shall be known as Chief of Fools.

In the annals of the ages, he who had no thought of fame (Keeping on the path of duty, caring not for praise or blame), Close beside the deathless Lincoln, writ in light, will shine his name.

Youth proclaimed him as a hero; time, a statesman; love, a man; Death has crowned him as a martyr,—so from goal to goal he ran, Knowing all the sum of glory that a human life may span.

He was chosen by the people; not an accident of birth Made him ruler of a nation, but his own intrinsic worth. Fools may govern over kingdoms—not republics of the earth.

He has raised the lovers’ standard by his loyalty and faith, He has shown how virile manhood may keep free from scandal’s breath. He has gazed, with trust unshaken, in the awful eyes of Death.

In the mighty march of progress he has sought to do his best. Let his enemies be silent, as we lay him down to rest, And may God assuage the anguish of one suffering woman’s breast.

 

GRIEF

As the funeral train with its honoured dead On its mournful way went sweeping, While a sorrowful nation bowed its head And the whole world joined in weeping, I thought, as I looked on the solemn sight, Of the one fond heart despairing, And I said to myself, as in truth I might,  “How sad must be this sharing.”

To share the living with even Fame, For a heart that is only human, Is hard, when Glory asserts her claim Like a bold, insistent woman; Yet a great, grand passion can put aside Or stay each selfish emotion, And watch, with a pleasure that springs from pride, Its rival—the world’s devotion.

But Death should render to love its own, And my heart bowed down and sorrowed For the stricken woman who wept alone While even her dead was borrowed; Borrowed from her, the bride—the wife—  For the world’s last martial honour, As she sat in the gloom of her darkened life, With her widow’s grief 

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