 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE DEAD CHIEF.
A child, I learned to reverence rank,
And deemed a noble must
Do noble things, if low he sank,
Who held a sacred trust;
I deemed the legendary lord,
Whose acts make history speak,
Had always ready hand and sword,
As champion of the weak;
I deemed he lived for duty's call,
With beggars shared his bread,
And opened wide his door to all—
But thou art dead.
And deemed a noble must
Do noble things, if low he sank,
Who held a sacred trust;
I deemed the legendary lord,
Whose acts make history speak,
Had always ready hand and sword,
As champion of the weak;
I deemed he lived for duty's call,
With beggars shared his bread,
And opened wide his door to all—
But thou art dead.
A man, I still respected birth
And thought the prison band
Of patriot seers, had put a girth
Of glory round the land;
I bowed my head, to titles won
Bright in the country's need,
By sacrifices grandly done,
That sowed no mortal seed;
I dreamed, if others wore a mask,
That rank a golden thread
Ran through each great and gallant task—
But thou art dead.
And thought the prison band
Of patriot seers, had put a girth
Of glory round the land;
I bowed my head, to titles won
Bright in the country's need,
By sacrifices grandly done,
That sowed no mortal seed;
I dreamed, if others wore a mask,
That rank a golden thread
Ran through each great and gallant task—
But thou art dead.
To thee I looked, a worthy chief,
As seeks a tender child
His father, and had found relief,
If he just fondly smiled;
For sure I felt, thy noble name
A nobler nature hid,
And was not over thing of shame
A painted coffin lid;
I saw in thee no common life,
That would in beauty tread,
A part of every splendid strife—
But thou art dead.
As seeks a tender child
His father, and had found relief,
If he just fondly smiled;
For sure I felt, thy noble name
A nobler nature hid,
And was not over thing of shame
A painted coffin lid;
I saw in thee no common life,
That would in beauty tread,
A part of every splendid strife—
But thou art dead.
780
My blood runs in thy niggard veins,
We claim a kindred stock,
But thou dost shrink from clansmen's pains,
And blench at battle shock;
The shadow of a craven pride
Pursues thy path, like night,
And stalks for ever at thy side,
And blinds thy better sight;
The course of thy heroic sires,
By wondering worlds was read,
Who passed for brothers through the fires—
But thou art dead.
We claim a kindred stock,
But thou dost shrink from clansmen's pains,
And blench at battle shock;
The shadow of a craven pride
Pursues thy path, like night,
And stalks for ever at thy side,
And blinds thy better sight;
The course of thy heroic sires,
By wondering worlds was read,
Who passed for brothers through the fires—
But thou art dead.
I sought thee, in the arméd field,
Where serried squadrons fight,
But thou hadst cast away thy shield,
In safe and sordid flight;
I saw thee, in the Senate, girt
With peers that empire propt,
But only found the casual dirt
Thy fleeting foot had dropped;
I sought thee, where calm justice rears
Its awful equal head,
And fashions laws of blood and tears—
But thou art dead.
Where serried squadrons fight,
But thou hadst cast away thy shield,
In safe and sordid flight;
I saw thee, in the Senate, girt
With peers that empire propt,
But only found the casual dirt
Thy fleeting foot had dropped;
I sought thee, where calm justice rears
Its awful equal head,
And fashions laws of blood and tears—
But thou art dead.
I sought thee, by the sufferer's bed,
Assuaging hopeless ill,
Whence all but comfort's voice had fled—
And thou wast dancing still;
I sought thee, in the busy hive
Of labour's iron charms,
And marked thee, not where toilers strive,
Laid in a wanton's arms;
I sought thee, in the holy courts,
Where praying hands are spread,
And heard thee cursing at thy sports—
But thou art dead.
Assuaging hopeless ill,
Whence all but comfort's voice had fled—
And thou wast dancing still;
I sought thee, in the busy hive
Of labour's iron charms,
And marked thee, not where toilers strive,
Laid in a wanton's arms;
I sought thee, in the holy courts,
Where praying hands are spread,
And heard thee cursing at thy sports—
But thou art dead.
Ah, I disown thee as my lord,
I will not follow him,
Who only wears a paper sword,
And swayed by every whim;
Who if not buried is a corpse,
To debts of duty blind,
That harlot Fashion fools, and warps
To its own harlot mind;
Who cannot bravely lead his clan,
And is by follies led
Or dainties of his kitchen pan—
But thou art dead.
I will not follow him,
Who only wears a paper sword,
And swayed by every whim;
Who if not buried is a corpse,
To debts of duty blind,
That harlot Fashion fools, and warps
To its own harlot mind;
Who cannot bravely lead his clan,
And is by follies led
Or dainties of his kitchen pan—
But thou art dead.
781
Ah, what is nature crowned with joy,
With laughter in her breath,
Below the gilding of the toy,
But decorated death?
And what art thou, O recreant chief,
Beneath thy pomp, and might
Of rank and riches, but a thief
That filches honour's right?
For fallen art thou into deeps
Lower than plummet lead,
And over thee wan England weeps—
But thou art dead.
With laughter in her breath,
Below the gilding of the toy,
But decorated death?
And what art thou, O recreant chief,
Beneath thy pomp, and might
Of rank and riches, but a thief
That filches honour's right?
For fallen art thou into deeps
Lower than plummet lead,
And over thee wan England weeps—
But thou art dead.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |