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The Primrose shines; unnoticed on the lawn
The Peacocks strut, they feel that it is spring,
They shake their fans, they drop their painted wing,
But Hughenden's white curtains all are drawn:
Who played the game of nations, King and Pawn,
Has played and lost the game where Death is King.
He nevermore shall see the cedars fling
Their fragrant shadows from the English dawn.

Ambitionless for self to be or have,
Ambitious for the land to be and do,
The Patriot-soul has vanished from our strife;
But, though his heart to dust and ashes go,
True Love shall bend above the threefold grave
That holds the friend, the statesman, and the wife.

W. E. Forster.

APRIL 5TH, 1886.

Farewell, a sorrowing nation knows her need;
Farewell, farewell, the stormless time has come;
Farewell, we cannot grudge thee rest and home,
Nor with the strong pale angel will we plead,
Our leader back, a little while, to lead;
For now the seas of state are white with foam,
Perplexing winds of faction rave and roam;
Law-mongers creedless are; thou hadst a creed!

Firm patriot-will, fierce hater of misrule,
Fearlessly faithful when thy country called,
Thy soul was thy prime-minister, thy queen
Truth, with her simple law of “say and mean.”
Stern breaker of the new tyrannic school,
Upholder of pure conscience, unenthralled.

John Bright.

MARCH 27TH, 1888.

Last of the gladiators gone to rest!
No more thy voice's trumpet-tone shall thrill
The nations halting between good and ill;
Thy lion head has sunk upon thy breast,
But death has not annulled thy life's bequest—
Unswerving right, inviolable will,
To lead the sons of labour up the hill
Of Freedom, faithful, peaceful, soul-possessed.

Great Tribune of the people, storms may rise,
They will not shake the pillars of thy throne,
Seeing thy rule was selflessness sincere,
And praise did never blind those patient eyes
That looked, beyond State discord, to the year
When golden love shall bind all hearts in one.

Lord Carnarvon.

JUNE 28TH, 1890.

Now let the Highclere cedars darklier wave
The rhododendrons fall and flush no more;
A silent face beside the silent shore
Waits for the silent shrouding of the grave!
The patriot soul that dared alone be brave,
And from the hate of kings a false robe tore,
That bade all loyal hearts refill the store
Of England's love which shall our England save,

Moves crowned with lilies; Learning sorrows near,
And golden speech that from the “Golden Grove”
Drew such sweet life, perforce must mutely bend.
But, ah, clear-souled Carnarvon, by thy bier
Two kneel, hands clasped triumphant; holy Love
And Faith that made the future firmest friend.

St. Cuthbert, when a shepherd-boy on the banks of the Leader, saw a vision of angels who appeared to be carrying a soul of exceeding brightness to the heavenly country. He learned afterwards, that at that same time Bishop Aidan of Lindisfarne had passed away, and the boy left his flock and entered the monastic order.

Field Marshal von Moltke.

APRIL 24TH, 1891.

Great battle-thinker, war and work is o'er,
No more shall hill and vale and blossoming plain
Shine as a chequer-board whereon your brain
May plan for peace thro' victory, and no more
In thought shall cannon crown the heights and roar,
Nor armies march and countermarch to gain
The dread arbitrament of woe and pain,
Whereby men hold the fields they plowed of yore.

Your warfare is accomplished, you have gone
To where men sheathe the sword and bear the palm,
And Love leads on to fuller light and life;
Where souls, who through Earth's pettiness and strife
Have held their strong simplicity and calm,
Hear, in the Land of Peace, Heaven's loud “Well done!”