Classic Poem

He that was King an hour ago
Is King no more; and we that bend
Beside the bier, too surely know
We lose a Friend.

His was no ‘blood-and-iron’ blend
To write in tears a ruthless reign;
Rather he strove to make an end
Of strife and pain.

Rather he strove to heal again
The half-healed wound, to hide the scar,
To purge away the lingering stain
Of racial war.

Thus, though no trophies deck his car
Of captured guns or banners torn,
Men hailed him as they hail a star
That comes with morn:

A star of brotherhood, not scorn,
A morn of loosing and release—
A fruitful time of oil and corn—
An Age of Peace!

Sleep then, O Dead beloved! and sleep
As one who, when his course is run,
May yet, in slumber, memory keep
Of duty done;

Sleep then, our England's King, as one
Who knows the lofty aim and pure,
Beyond all din of battles won,
Must still endure.