 | Valete |  |
61
At Hughenden.
19TH APRIL, 1881.
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.
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.
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.
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