Classic Poem

Two years have westered since the pale primroses
Were laid to wither in the great Earl's grave.
'Twas timid then, but now the flower is brave
To wear his memory till our history closes.

It shelters in secluded by-way places,
A tiny thing; yet he was not too great
To know and love it, he who loved the State,
And knew the glory spread before kings' faces.

He chose it with the subtle sapient fingers
That wrought the world's will and controlled his time,
And moved all chords from simple to sublime
In lordly harmony whose music lingers.

He wore it with the same familiar pleasure
That brightens in the beggar children's cheeks
Through all the April sunned and clouded weeks,
When wood and lane yield up their yellow treasure.

And to the service of the Sovereign-noted,
By high and low, necessitous and rich,
From costly garden, and from wayside ditch,
The vestal flower for ever is devoted.

He won—we wear—the pale but proud primroses,
Pale for his death, but prouder for his life,
Proud of the upward toil, the noble strife,
The honoured peace where that great heart reposes.