|
|
Death Of Sir John.
By W. M. MacKeracher
What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead?
Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?
No more shall followers vaunt and foemen dread;
No more by him the hot debate be led;
No more the lively tale, the clever jest
Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
Albeit not her sternest, not her best,
But such is over now, then let his ashes rest.
When all was anarchy, he seized the reins,
And broke and trained the fiery coursers young,
And from so many wide and fair domains
One great Dominion 'neath his guidance sprung,
Which he made glorious, till the nations rung
With our renown and his immortal name.
But now his day was o'er; his work was done.
'Twas well. - He lived to hear his land's acclaim,
And perished in the pride of his Marengo fame.
Once more I see him - there once more he stands,
Where midst the learned and beautiful he stood:
Scholars and knights, dames, statesmen clapped their hands;
Within the glittering hall a thousand viewed;
And ardent youth drank draughts to him imbrewed
With adulation. Run is glory's race.
And this is Death, - that such a being should,
Who o'er his country soared in "pride of place,"
Be mingled with her dust like brutes and idlers base.
Softly, sweet River, softly by the cliff,
Where in his eyrie the spent eagle sleeps!
Softly, beside where o'er one cold and stiff
A hapless lady her pale vigil keeps!
And come ye mourners - very heaven weeps -
With rue and rosemary from far and near,
From Breton's capes and rude Columbia's steeps
To spread the shroud upon your hero's bier
While he who Laurel is will weave the cypress sere.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 73 times.
|
|
