What am I reading? He is dead?
He the great interpreter
And seer — England's noblest head?
What am I reading? It is hushed?
The deepest voice that life had found
To read a century profound
With all time's seethe and stir?
Why, it is but a scanty score
Of days, since, at his side,
Clasping his hand with more than pride,
I felt that the immortal tide
Of his great mind would long break o'er
The cold command of Death.
Still in my ear is echoing
The surf of his strong words, and still
Against the wild trees on the Hill
His cottage sheltered under,
I see the toss of his gray locks,
Like Lear's — for he had felt the sting
Of all too greatly giving
The kingdom of his mind to those
Who for it held him mad.
O England, guard thy living
Like him from a like fate!
For not the mighty thunder
Of thy proud name from all the rocks
Of all the world can compensate
A nation whom no Song makes glad,
And whom no Seer makes great.