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63
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.
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.
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.
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