 | To the Memory of General Gordon |  |
To the Memory of General Gordon.
JANUARY 27th, 1885.
In Eastern skies the Dawn grows red,
But yet yon Heaven itself must know,
That those young morning beams are shed
Upon a poorer world below;
He who for England, helped by none,
So long his crushing burdens bore,
As grand and lonely as the sun,
Set yesterday—to rise no more.
But yet yon Heaven itself must know,
That those young morning beams are shed
Upon a poorer world below;
He who for England, helped by none,
So long his crushing burdens bore,
As grand and lonely as the sun,
Set yesterday—to rise no more.
We saw how, sinking into night,
Unmoved by storms, unchilled by gloom,
That calm and solitary Light
Grew larger on the edge of Doom;
Alas! grim floods of darkness roll
Over his quenched and shattered Place;
Death hides from us that Hero-soul:
The Sun drops rayless into space.
Unmoved by storms, unchilled by gloom,
That calm and solitary Light
Grew larger on the edge of Doom;
Alas! grim floods of darkness roll
Over his quenched and shattered Place;
Death hides from us that Hero-soul:
The Sun drops rayless into space.
And so a mighty Life is marred
By Babblers, without heart or shame,
Who played it, as men play a card,
To win their worthless Party-game;
Let them repent; we may not pause
In this dread hour, to brand that crime,
But trust it to the Eternal Laws,
And to God's safe avenger—Time.
By Babblers, without heart or shame,
Who played it, as men play a card,
To win their worthless Party-game;
Let them repent; we may not pause
In this dread hour, to brand that crime,
But trust it to the Eternal Laws,
And to God's safe avenger—Time.
There is one thought that fills the land,
Leaving no room for aught beside,—
The fate of him who built on sand—
The sand of shifting souls—and died.
That sword of sorrow pierces all
Yet must we wrestle with despair,
Lest England, lost like him, should fall.
As meteors fall through midnight air.
Leaving no room for aught beside,—
The fate of him who built on sand—
The sand of shifting souls—and died.
That sword of sorrow pierces all
Yet must we wrestle with despair,
Lest England, lost like him, should fall.
As meteors fall through midnight air.
Pale England—sickening as she hears
Of blood, that like a river runs;
And watching, with wan face, through tears,
The useless slaughter of her sons;
There moan below her shaken feet,
Strange earthquakes—throbbing underground,
And her eye seeks out—Men—to meet
Each tempest, ere it breaks around.
Of blood, that like a river runs;
And watching, with wan face, through tears,
The useless slaughter of her sons;
Strange earthquakes—throbbing underground,
And her eye seeks out—Men—to meet
Each tempest, ere it breaks around.
Oh Mother England! faint not yet,
But teach us how to strive like him;
There burns a hope before us set,
A Beacon never waning dim.
If we, through Gordon's strength grow strong,
And nurse within us, living still,
That it may lead our steps along,
A Presence from his heart and will;
But teach us how to strive like him;
There burns a hope before us set,
A Beacon never waning dim.
If we, through Gordon's strength grow strong,
And nurse within us, living still,
That it may lead our steps along,
A Presence from his heart and will;
We shall press forward to our goal,
Sustained by echoes from the Past,
Sustained by Him—whose Death-notes toll
Sublime as any, though the last;
Yes! we must follow on his track,
Like those, who coming from afar,
To Bethlehem, never looking back,
Followed in faith that sudden star.
Sustained by echoes from the Past,
Sustained by Him—whose Death-notes toll
Sublime as any, though the last;
Yes! we must follow on his track,
Like those, who coming from afar,
To Bethlehem, never looking back,
Followed in faith that sudden star.
Then, if across the grave should steal
Some whisperings in an earthly voice,
What he yet holds of man will feel
His Death not barren, and rejoice;
And that he will hold much, we know,
Through endless ages rolling by;
Though kindled here on earth below,
The Light within him cannot die.
Some whisperings in an earthly voice,
What he yet holds of man will feel
His Death not barren, and rejoice;
And that he will hold much, we know,
Through endless ages rolling by;
Though kindled here on earth below,
The Light within him cannot die.
Yes, though above the stars he soar,
His heart its Gordon beat will keep,
And we, who our own lost deplore,
Must work—and earn the right to weep.
Then, without weakness or remorse,
Tears long pent up—may well be shed,
And sorrow take its natural course,
O'er Him and them—the Noble Dead.
His heart its Gordon beat will keep,
And we, who our own lost deplore,
Must work—and earn the right to weep.
Then, without weakness or remorse,
Tears long pent up—may well be shed,
And sorrow take its natural course,
O'er Him and them—the Noble Dead.
Francis Hastings Doyle.
| To the Memory of General Gordon | |