"Now, drink," he gibed, "and play the man!"
He stretched the chalice forth. It stank
That my soul failed me, and I drank.
With loathing soul and quivering flesh
I drank, and lo! the draught I took
Was limpid-clear, and sweet and fresh
As ever came from summer brook
Or fountain, where the trees have made
Long from the sun a pleasant shade.
He hurled the chalice to the sky;
A bright hand caught it; and was gone.
He blessed me with a sovereign eye,
And like a god's his visage shone,
And there he took me by the hand,
And led me towards another land.
LIVINGSTONE.
Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874.
BY HENRY LLOYD.
With solemn march and slow a soldier comes,
In conquest fallen; home we bring him dead;
Stand silent by, beat low the muffled drums,
Uncover ye, and bow the reverent head.
Where ghostly echoes dwell and grey light falls,
Where Kings and Heroes rest in honoured sleep;
Their names steel bitten on the sacred walls,
Inter his dust, while England bends to weep.
Stir not ye Kings and Heroes in your rest,
Lest these poor bones dishonour such as you;
This man was both, though nodding plume or crest
Ne'er waved above his eye so bright and true.
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