Wherefore with honour lay him in his grave, Sir Henry Taylor. The Burden of the State HE burden of the State is great For such as serve and such as reign A Great Man R. C. Legge. HAT man is great, and he alone, Content to know, and be unknown: Strong is that man, he only strong, All powers that, in the face of Wrong, (B 838) 23 And free he is, and only he, Hath power upon himself, to be If such a man there be, where’er Great Nature hath him in her care, Her cause is his: Who holds by everlasting law Which neither chance nor change can flaw· Whose steadfast course is one With whatsoever forces draw The ages on: Who hath not bowed his honest head Of Duty, shunned her eye: Nor truckled to loud times: nor wed His heart to a lie: Nor feared to follow, in the offence Of justice unsubdued; Nor shrunk from any consequence He looks his Angel in the face Without a blush: nor heeds disgrace, Not morselled out from day to day Of hours that have no plan, For though he live aloof from ken, Abroad, and with the hearts of men He nothing human alien deems Man's meanest claim upon him: And, where he walks, the mere sunbeams Drop blessings on him: Because they know him Nature's friend, On whom she doth delight to tend With loving-kindness ever, Helping and heartening to the end His high endeavour. Therefore, though mortal made, he can The orb of time, is his by faith, And his, whilst breathing human breath, To taste, before he dies, The deep eventual calm of death, Life's latest prize. If such a man there be, where'er He goeth girt with cohorts, powers, He owes no homage to the sun: Lord of a lofty life is he, The merely great are, all in all, No more than what the merely small Neither conferred, nor can recall Owen Meredith. England my Mother E NGLAND my mother, Wardress of waters, Maker of men,— Hast thou yet leisure Heed'st thou the songsmith Deafened with tumults, Demos is loud. Lazarus, hungry, Menaces Dives; Labour the giant Chafes in his hold. Yet do the songsmiths Forge they the rhyme. So let the songsmith Grey grows thy count'nance Full of the ages; Time on thy forehead Sits like a dream: Song is the potion Youth's one elixir, Fountain of morn. Thou, at the world-loom Weaving thy future, Fitly may'st temper Toil with delight. |