David Livingstone

Droop half-mast colours, bow, bare-headed crowds,
As this plain coffin o'er the side is slung,
To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shrouds,
As erst by Afric's trunks liana-hung.

'Tis the last mile, of many thousands trod
With failing strength, but never-failing will,
By the worn frame, now at its rest with God,
That never rested from its fight with ill.

Or if the ache of travel and of toil
Would sometimes wring a short sharp cry of pain
From agony of fever, blain, and boil,
'Twas but to crush it down, and on again!

He knew not that the trumpet he had blown
Out of the darkness of that dismal land,
Had reached and roused an army of his own,
To strike the chains from the Slave's fettered hand.

Now, we believe, he knows, sees all is well:
How God had stayed his will, and shaped his way,
To bring the light to those that darkling dwell,
With gains that life's devotion well repay.

Open the Abbey doors, and bear him in
To sleep with king and statesman, chief and sage,
The Missionary, come of weaver-kin,
But great by work that brooks no lower wage.

He needs no epitaph to guard a name
Which men shall prize while worthy work is known;
He lived and died for good—be that his fame:
Let marble crumble: this is living stone.
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