Classic Poem

Our gray-haired chieftain toiling in the van,
Who linked his country's present to its past;
The merry-hearted, marvellous old man
Is stricken down at last.

'Tis meet that we should mourn him whose firm hand,
Though blanched by eighty winters, still could hold
The helm of State, and guide his native land
'Mid dangers manifold.

His every thought was England's; prompt to guard
The pride and glory of her pure renown;
Quick to defend her honour; wise to ward
All peril from her crown.

His hoary winter seemed to mimic spring,
And bear the blossoms of the sunny hours;
The freshness of the spirit served to fling
Its force o'er all his powers.

The cheery voice; the hale and hearty form;
The friendly faith; the judgment all elate;
The sharp retort; the tact to quell the storm
Or turbulent debate:

The courage and the constancy; the truth
And earnestness that underlay the crust
Of outward levity; the heart of youth;
The fervour and the trust:

The rounded life in which there did not lurk
One wish that was not for his country's weal;
The vigorous frame that found a joy in work;
The never-tiring zeal:—

All these in him we grieve for held their part:
Britannia mourns a great and worthy son.
Since the death-angel stilled the gallant heart,
And whispered his ‘Well done.’