Pass'd to the chamber in his lordly mansion,
Where still his mother Church with music mild
From her old book of promise and of pardon
The weary hours of lassitude beguiled,
And, like a soldier's mother,

Breath'd of her sweetest to her bravest child.

Now that last look we saw upon his features
Is surely changed into a tender bliss.
No more of scorn, or pain, or pity-something
Gentler than arrow-touch of Artemis,*
Repose and adoration,

And whatsoever else immortal is.

Ah! ye do well to bear him out from Knowsley, Quietly, as he charged you, to the aisle.

No harm that muffled bells be heard from steeples, Or that flags half-mast high be hung awhile;

But let not any herald

Break the wand o'er him, and proclaim his style.

Only what time the vault is dimly lighted
Among the proud old Earls the bier be set;
And of retainer rough, and sturdy tenant,
And noble kindred, every cheek be wet;
And on the blazon'd coffin

Be duly seen the cap and coronet.

Sufficient is all England's proclamation

Of him whose chaplet many a leaf entwines— The noblest giver of the noblest largesse ; Whose name for ever on her record shines; Who, for a while turned poet,

Pour'd his large rhetoric into Homer's lines.

* Il., xxiv. 759.

Sufficient for his witness to his country The work that only patriot spirits can Work in the plenitude of truth and genius, The loftiest life-work of directest planRest, Edward, Earl of Derby,

A very perfect knight and gentleman.

THE

DERRY STATUE ΤΟ THE MEMORY OF SIR R. A. FERGUSON, M.P.

Ан, raise it up—

Raise up the statue in the storied town;
Make it a sign of sorrow and renown,

Like flags that tell us where a ship went down.

Ah, raise it up

Raise up the statue in the quiet square ;
Crowning the street that rises, like a stair,
Up from the river in the gloom or glare.

And let it front

At eve or dawn, or with a nameless charm
Of mystic darkness on its folded arm,

The Foyle that brims and brightens by the Farm.

Why raise it up?

Where are the great lines there that we may seek,
As of the statesman with pale brow and cheek,
As of the senator in act to speak ?

Not such are here,

If life-drawn truth have moulded it; not such,
If inspiration, by some happy touch,

Have stamp'd in bronze the presence loved so much.

Yet raise it up.

Methinks the shaggy brow speaks honest scorn,
And sharp and kindly as a frosty morn
Is the man's wholesome influence reborn.

Ah, raise it up—

Show us the rugged gentleness, the true eyes
Of him who never wrought for place or prize,
Who lack'd the golden eloquence-that lies!

Ah, raise it up—

And let it tell, as far as sculpture can,
For those who have congenial hearts to scan,
The noble quietness of an honest man.

Yet scarcely tell

The lines that gather on that kindly brow,
The cares that wither and the pains that bow-
He has forgotten them, and we will now.

And often here,

Come from the heather'd hill, where ever higher,
Summer by summer, creeps the yellow fire
Of the ripe corn right up the mountain's spire-

And often here,

When in the busy square the parted meet,
Peasant and stately gentleman shall greet
A face they know, a presence sadly sweet.

Ah me! ah me!

The souls in white, who with a single aim
Have wrought or thought for us, they may not claim
Or care to hear the echoes of their name.

They may not heed

If men remember them or not below

Earth's bells are muffled for them as with snow, Perchance unheard o'er the dark river's flow.

Yet raise it up

Raise up the statue, in this land and time, When to tell truth heads all the lists of crime, And lives are low, and only words sublime.