Das Tüchtige wenns wahrhaft ist,
Wirkt über alle zeiten hinaus.—
Goethe

Let there be fingers on the lips to-day,
And footsteps check'd to a less hasty tread;
Let human reverence reach its highest sway
While England gathers in her noble dead.
Yes! we bring one to swell the mighty throng
Of those who ever planet-like are seen—
Fire pillars in war, in politics, in song,
Or where this boundless breadth of thought has been.
And he for whom we claim this high, meet place
Comes heralded by ours—a nation's tears;
Asking with mute, worn, death-ennobled face,
A kindly union with his fellow peers.
If toil and struggle for fraternal right
Can grant this boon: If work for brother men,
And firm endurance and heroic might,
That fought the long battle of this life again:
If the old faith in God, and all that hope
Which, like a sunbeam through the winter gloom,
Flashes through doubts and shadows till they ope—
 Then give this gray-worn martyr rest and room.
Lo! as they bring him on the ages rise,
And in far whispers, like the boundless wind,
Cry, 'He is only greatest in our eyes
Who toils and conquers for his fellow-kind.'
And that far whisper, as the sunshine slips,
Broad-wing'd and fleet, from summer hill to hill,
Echoes through worlds, and, lighting on the lips,
Quickens the soul to higher standard still:
For men are ever noble when they stand
In sovereign worship of some kingly one,
Who toil'd for them with brain, and foot, and hand,
Till death came, and the godlike task was done.
His, too, is finish'd; but, before the dust
Be hidden, let us look upon this man,
That his life energy and tireless trust
May be ours also as we work our span.
Ye, too, whose life-paths in this world are dim—
Who see no finger-posts in earth or sky—
Come, and see clearer as ye gaze on him,
And learn how man may nobly live and die.
But speech is idle. Better in this hour,
When England waits to clasp him to her breast,
That silence speak our grief with better power
Than the loud sorrow as he sinks to rest.
Then lay him down, not with that pomp or state
Which follows kings—though he, too, wore a crown
Upon that brow—but with strong England's great
All solemnly and simply lay him down.
There let him rest, while the great ages roll,
Reaping the harvest which his hand has sown.
Thou noble worker of the grand, firm soul,
Thou pioneer of brotherhood, sleep on!