| |
Born, December 21, 1804. Died, April 19, 1881.
DISRAELI dead! The trappings of late days, | |
| The Coronet, the Garter, slip aside, | |
| The Peer’s emblazonment, the victor’s bays, | |
| The pageantry of pride. | |
| |
| Triumph’s mere symbols, badges of success, | 5 |
| Who weighs, who marks them now when all is said | |
| In simple words, low-breathed in heaviness?— | |
| Disraeli’s dead! | |
| |
| So all have known him from that earlier time | |
| Of meteoric and all-daring youth, | 10 |
| And through the season of his dazzling prime; | |
| And so to-day, in sooth, | |
| |
| ’Tis Benjamin Disraeli all will mourn, | |
| Nor he the less unfeignedly whose lance | |
| Against that shield and crest full oft had borne | 15 |
| In combat à outrance. | |
| |
| The fearless fighter and the flashing wit | |
| Swordless and silent! ’Tis a thought to dim | |
| The young Spring sunshine, glancing, as was fit, | |
| Bright at the last on him. | 20 |
| |
| Who knew no touch of winter in his soul, | |
| Holding the Greek gift yet in mind and tongue, | |
| And who, though faring past life’s common goal, | |
| Loved of the gods died young. | |
| |
| Like the Enchantress of the Nile, unstaled | 25 |
| By custom as unchilled by creeping years, | |
| A world-compeller, who not often failed | |
| In fight with his few peers. | |
| |
| Success incarnate, self-inspired, self-raised | |
| To that proud height whereat youth’s fancy aimed | 30 |
| Whom even those who doubted whilst they praised, | |
| Admired, e’en whilst they blamed. | |
| |
| No more that fine invective’s flow to hear, | |
| That buoyant wisdom or that biting wit! | |
| To see him and his one sole battle-peer | 35 |
| Sharp counter hit for hit. | |
| |
| No more to picture that impassive face, | |
| That unbetraying eye, that fadeless curl, | |
| No more in plot or policy to trace | |
| The hand of the great Earl! | 40 |
| |
| How strange it seems, and how unwelcome! Rest, | |
| Not least amidst our greatest! Who would dare | |
| Deny thee place and splendour with the best | |
| Who breathed our English air? | |
| |
| Peace, lasting Peace that strife no more shall break, | 45 |
| With Honour none may challenge, crown thee now | |
| Wherever laid, nor Faction’s self would shake | |
| The laurel from thy brow. | |
| |
| And England, who for thy quenched brightness grieves, | |
| Garlands the sword no more to leave its sheath, | 50 |
| And, turning from thy simple gravestone, leaves | |
| A tear upon the wreath. | |
| |
