The Poems of A. C. Benson

Give thanks to God! our Hero is at rest,
Who more than all hath laboured, striven, aspired;
And now hath won his sleep—the last—the best
His soul desired.

Now, though the warlike rumours swiftly run,
Though mighty nations toss in fierce unrest,
Though the harsh thunder of the throbbing gun
Roars in the West,

Here all is still: beneath his castle walls
Sprouts blade, and bush, and every tender thing,
And hark, the jocund throstle! how she calls
To Hope and Spring!

Peace on the smitten hearts that sorrow near!
Now that the toil-worn warrior sinks to sleep,
The nations listen, half afraid to hear
A nation weep;

And patriots weep, strong souls on alien shores,
And men whose feet with saving peace are shod,
And every heart that silently adores
Freedom and God.

Freedom and God!—these first—but still he served
All peaceful labours, and the world's strong youth;
Yet in the wildest onset, never swerved
From sternest truth.

The fight he scorned not; 'twas the prize he scorned!
He chose the scars and not the gauds of fame,
Gave crowns to others, keeping unadorned
His homely name,

Spring after spring, beneath the budding elm,
Not worn with toil, yet joyful in release,
He shook the dust of battle from his helm,
And practised peace.

Intent for rest—as he had hardly fought—
Hid from the world, the uproar and the fret,
Plunged in an instant in serener thought,
He could forget!

While yet his words made havoc of men's fears,
And thrilled reverberant through the spell-bound throng,
Smiling he stept from empire, to the years
Through time, through song,

Immortal made, old knights and spouses true;
And far as his enkindled eyes could scan,
He shot his arrowy thought, and pierced, and knew
The soul of man.

Or in the village temple, morn by morn,
He cleansed his pure heart with a humble prayer,
And rose on Zion's songs, beyond the bourne
Of earthly care;

And last the Father willed one pang of love,
From wisdom's fiercest fire, one glowing coal
Should touch his lips, to chasten and to prove
The stainless soul.

Swift, swift was patience perfect: where he lay,
What heart could fail, what lips could murmur then?
He whispered, 'twixt the darkness and the day,
His faint Amen.

Eton, remember! How shall men forget
Thy heroes' roll, thy burden of renown,
The bright surpassing jewels strongly set
Within thy crown,

Till God's vast purpose silently enfold
The thoughts that are not and the things that are,
Till mercy reign, in gentle glory rolled
From star to star?

Not mighty deeds, in keenest foresight planned,
Strong words, sweet motions of bewildering grace,
Not these receive at God's all-judging Hand
The loftiest place,

But they who keep, through warfare and through ease,
Though praise, though hate about their name be blown,
The childlike heart, the childlike faith—for these
Are next the Throne.

This Ode was written to be recited at Eton on June, 4, 1898

University of Virginia Library

ODE IN MEMORY OF THE RT. HONBLE. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE