A mighty chief has fallen;
Mourn for the mighty dead,
For him whose sacred head
Has bowed to fate,
And passed “the Gate
And Flood,” by mighty heroes swollen.
Yet mourn with quiet joy,
And let the wide world see,
To mighty mournful England, he
Is still her pride,
Though death’s dark tide
Has swept his living honours by.
All hail thou might chief!
Let nations cry, all hail!
While Britain’s isle do wail,
The hero gone,
And weeping bend beneath their grief.
“Peace hath her victories,”
No less than cruel war;
And in that shining car
He stately drove
And stop’d the mourner’s tears and cries.
With years and honours crowned,
He saw new nations rise,
While England’s enemies;
All foreign foes,
As they arose,
And sunk, in gulph of Time profound.
All to him honours pay,
Who half a hundred years,
Midst moving hopes and fears,
The balance held,
War’s passions quelled,
And drove that hated fiend away.
Now, peace hath dawned at last,
While at the helm of state,
Where he all grandly sate,
And did preside,
His country’s pride,
Until his latest breath was past.
But now he’s of the past,
Joined with the mighty dead,
Whose valiant souls have fled
“Beyond the bourne
Whence none return;”
Yet future years
Shall owe him theirs,
And to his tomb shall pilgrims haste.
And votive offerings bring,
Who, as they mourning pay
Him honours due, shall say
“Temple” in name,
His lasting fame
Shall need no fane, no storied pane,
His country shall his anthems sing.
His native land he loved,
Which spoiling breath does feel,
He proudly held
Her honour still,
Above his will,
O’er private fame, or wealth and name,
His country was supreme, beloved.
Let not his loved wife weep,
To his all honoured tomb,
And grandly bow,
While resting near
His sacred bier,
And meekly show
“Her gems” where he doth calmly sleep.
A noble daughter she;
While in her face we see,
Reflected still,
That valiant will,
Her sire did deem her highest grace;
While he, now gone,
Lived in her smiles, which did his cares efface.
October 18th 1865.