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58
At Livingstone's Funeral.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY, APRIL, 1874.
When down the muffled melancholy nave
They bore the heart that ever yearned for home,
But ever felt its duty was to roam
Far wildernesses, solitary, brave,
That so who knew not home, sweet home might have—
Fierce nations to his funeral seemed to come,
To weep with those who underneath the dome
Wept for the friend they carried to his grave.
They bore the heart that ever yearned for home,
But ever felt its duty was to roam
Far wildernesses, solitary, brave,
That so who knew not home, sweet home might have—
Fierce nations to his funeral seemed to come,
To weep with those who underneath the dome
Wept for the friend they carried to his grave.
But we beheld upon that coffin borne
No wreaths of laurel, cypress or of bay,
Only the plumey feathers of the palm,
And as our voices rose in prayer and psalm
We saw one standing victor in the Morn,
And felt o'er darkened Africa the Day.
No wreaths of laurel, cypress or of bay,
Only the plumey feathers of the palm,
And as our voices rose in prayer and psalm
We saw one standing victor in the Morn,
And felt o'er darkened Africa the Day.
The pathetic grief upon the faces of the two devoted African servants of Livingstone, Chumah and Susi, who at great personal risk had borne the body of their master from Ilala to the coast, as they stood by the side of the grave in Westminster Abbey, can never be forgotten by those who witnessed it.
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