THE PEACEMAKER.

Silently over his vast imperial seas,

Over his sentinel fleets the Shadow swept

And all his armies slept.

There was but one quick challenge at the gate,

Then — the cold menace of that out-stretched hand,

Waving aside the panoplies of State,

Brought the last faithful watchers to their knees,

And lightning flashed the grief from land to land.

Mourn, Britain, mourn, not for a king alone!

This was the people's king! His purple throne

Was in their hearts. They shared it. Millions of swords

Could not have shaken it! Sharers of this doom,

This democratic doom which all men know,

His Common-weal, in this great common woe,

Veiling its head in the universal gloom,

With that majestic grief which knows not words,

Bows o'er a world-wide tomb.

Mourn, Europe, for our England set this Crown

In splendour past the reach of temporal power,

Secure above the thunders of the hour,

A sun in the great skies of her renown,

A sun to hold her wheeling worlds in one

By its own course of duty pre-ordained,

Where'er the meteors flash and fall, a sun

With its great course of duty!

So he reigned,

And died in its observance. Mightier he

Than any despot, in his people's love,

He served that law which rules the Thrones above,

That world-wide law which by the raging sea

Abased the flatterers of Canúte and makes

The King that abnegates all lesser power

A rock in time of trouble, and a tower

Of strength where'er the tidal tempest breaks;

That world-wide law whose name is harmony,

Whose service perfect freedom!

And his name

The Peacemaker, through all the future years

Shall burn, a glorious and prophetic flame,

A beaconing sun that never shall go down,

A sun to speed the world's diviner morrow,

A sun that shines the brighter for our sorrow;

For, O, what splendour in a monarch's crown

Vies with the splendour of his people's tears?

And now, O now, while the sorrowful trumpet is blown,

From island to continent, zone to imperial zone,

And the flags of the nations are lowered in grief with our own;

Now, while the roll of the drums that for battle were dumb

When he reigned, salute his passing; and low on the breeze

From the snow-bound North to the Australasian seas

Surges the solemn lament — O, shall it not come,

A glimpse of that mightier union of all mankind?

Now, though our eyes, as they gaze on the vision, grow blind,

Now, while the world is all one funeral knell,

And the mournful cannon thunder his great farewell,

Now, while the bells of a thousand cities toll,

Remember, O England, remember the ageless goal,

Rally the slumbering faith in the depths of thy soul,

Lift up thine eyes to the Kingdom for which he fought,

That Empire of Peace and Good-will, for which to his death-hour he wrought.

Then, then while the pomp of the world seems a little thing,

Ay, though by the world it be said,

The King is dead!

We shall lift up our hearts and answer — Long live the King!