THE FUNERAL IN THE ABBEY.

List! there is music sounding! Not airy strains, that lead the mazy dance; Not trumpet tones, that stir the warrior’s soul; But soft, and slow, and solemn, as it swells And rolls afar and dies, midst its own echoes From vaulted roof, and lofty aisle dim-lighted, Where clustering columns rise, and rainbow rays Gleam in their varied glory o’er the scene. ’Tis in the sacred fane where sleeps the dust Of those whom Britain loves to honour, who Shed living honour by their deeds on her, Challenging place upon the rolls of Fame. Sages, and saints, and sons of song lie there; Wresters of Nature’s secrets;—senators, Whose thund’rous eloquence could awe the world; Patriots whose lifeblood for their country flowed; War chiefs who led her armies on to glory; Statesmen with eye far-reaching, who could thread Diplomacy’s dark mazes, and, the helm With firm hand grasping, steer the nation’s bark Through storms of strife to honour and to peace. And royalty’s proud dust lies mouldering there, ’Neath sculptured marbles, or midst gilded shrines: While high o’erhead the ancient banners droop.— Monarchs of other days,—of other ages, Successive generations of the great, Who ruled the realm of England as she grew From isolate obscurity to greatness That with a fame undying fills the world. Lo! there,—an open grave! and heads are bare, And bent;—and bosoms heave, and tears are falling From youthful womanhood,—from hoary age. Men weep, as slowly through the reverent throng Is borne what hides from view a shrivelled form, Wasted and featureless: yet round that bier Stand silently the great of many lands. Britain’s high-born stand there; and kings of men Of other realms stand there by envoy. There The sons of science gather, and the friends Of light and liberty. The Churches’ messengers Look on in sadness there; and a vast throng, Crowding around, sigh forth a nation’s sympathy. Tokens of reverent love,—azalea wreaths, Laurel and myrtle, with fair flowers entwined, Bright immortelles, branches of Afric’s palm,— (Symbol of triumph e’en in death) are there. And,—honour to the honour’d!—Britain’s Queen Sign of “respect and admiration” sends,— Her own, and royal daughter’s funeral gifts To deck the bier. And who is it that thus Draws to himself, in death, the eyes of nations? Is it some warrior leader, who has died In the proud hour of victory; and, wept By a whole people’s tears, lies down to rest? —Or is it one who, in a nation’s peril, Has earned a nation’s gratitude by wise And warning counsels in her council halls? —Is it a Prince has died? That royalty Should sigh her grief, and nobles weep around? ’Tis Livingstone!—That name a thousand tongues Through years of hope and fear alternate, uttered; While he who bore it, deep in Afric’s wilds, Solving her mystery of ages, trod Her deserts, traced her streams,—a pioneer Of science, commerce, liberty, and mercy. —A “weaver boy” thus honoured!—Wherefore not? He wore, indeed, no ducal coronet; Nor dwelt in lordly hall. But “stamp” of “rank”[15] He needed not, while Nature’s “gold” of manhood, Solid, and pure, and bright, shone through his soul. The “weaver boy,” in youthful prime, had yearned O’er Afric’s sons enslaved; for his own soul, By “grace of God” emancipated, longed To free from bondage “body, soul, and spirit” Of those who were immortal as himself, And co-redeemed, though dark in mind as hue. He bore the Cross’s standard o’er the plains Where wandering tribes by Moffat gathered dwelt; And preached the Cross’s story in the tongues Strange to his earlier years.—But as he stood, And looked to “regions” yet “beyond,” where white man’s foot Had never trod, fresh longings filled his soul. —“Millions dwell yonder:—all unknown to us, They live and die in darkness: and they groan In bitter bondage, where no ray of hope Shines through the gloom.—I go to find the way:— Let others follow.” And he went,—alone; And braved the desert blast, the serpent’s folds, The jungle’s ambush, and the lion’s fang: He braved the fevered swamp, the tropic sun, The mountain torrent, and the savage spear. Barbarian wonder followed in his steps; And treachery shrank before the magic power Of Christian kindness, single and unarmed. He vanished from our sight,—and time rolled on While he was lost from view. At length was heard Rumour of strange discoveries: lakes unknown Had spread their silver waters to his gaze; And mighty streams, through vales all green and glorious Poured their vast floods o’er thundering cataracts, Where men had deemed were nought but deserts drear. “From ocean through to ocean” tropic realms Were traversed with unfaltering footsteps, till Regions before unknown, with all their wonders Rose into view, and hidden tribes disclosed Their being and their need. He rested then Awhile, and told his countrymen the story Of his lone wanderings over Afric’s wilds. Men wondered while they listened, as they heard Of grassy slopes, and waving woods, and sparkling waters; Of birds of beauty, flowers of gorgeous hues; And these where they had pictured a Sahara, With ’whelming sandstorms, and the death-blast dire Of red simoom. He rested not for long:— The spell was on him, and his work not done. And now he led a band, who bore the light Of truth divine, to chase away the darkness That brooded over regions bright and fair, Where “man alone is vile.”—’Twas there he laid The partner of his bosom, who had shared The joys and sorrows of his younger years. A grave by Shire’s Waters, far away From home and kindred, holds the precious dust. And now his ties to earth are loosened:—now, The beckoning Hand that calls him onwards still, Is seen more plainly,—and he follows. He Would lift the cloud from regions still unknown; Heard of but through the victims of a vile Traffic in human blood. His soul was fired With ardent resolution to destroy, (Or perish in the contest) the dire curse That blighted nations when they might be blest. A vision rose before him:—These fair realms Yielding earth’s teeming increase in exchange For varied handiwork of other lands;— An open-handed commerce giving boons To honest industry, while crushing down The cursed manstealer’s trade:—The light of truth, Of Christian truth, for mind, and heart, and life, For family and nation, blending with Prismatic rays by science shed around: The darkness melting, heathen orgies vile Yielding the place to worship bright and pure; Songs of salvation where the savage yells;— Slavery of mind and body killed together, And Freedom smiling glad o’er all the land! —This was his vision;—and it might be true;— And he would labour that it might,—to death! Again, yet once again, the word, “Farewell!” A last farewell: we heard his voice no more. The years rolled on,—and on: he came not back. Tidings, indeed, there were; but “far between, Like angel visits,” were those tidings brief, That still he lived, and toiled,—the white man lone, Who with such wondrous spell o’er savage minds, And with charmed life, held pain and death at bay. —And then came silence.——“Has he sunk at last?” And then came other tidings;—“He is dead! And dead by murderous hands!”—And hearts were chilled With horror, and stood still.—But some said, “No! Not thus will that brave spirit pass away. Africa knows his errand:—’tis not so.” Nor was it so. A kindred spirit sought, And found him!—and with all the old fire burning; But with the censer now well nigh consumed. —“Come home with me, and rest: well hast thou earned The right upon thy laurels to repose:— The world is yearning o’er thee:—Come and rest!” “Not yet! not yet! There is still work to do. Let me but show the way to Afric’s heart:— Leave me to trace the water-path by which Old England’s white-wing’d sea-birds shall ascend,— Bearing her light, and liberty, and peace,— To roll away the dark reproach of ages; And then,—My work is done.” And Stanley left him. And then, th’ enfeebled frame, once more essaying To climb the mountain, pierce the forest’s gloom, Stem the swift torrent, cross the lake’s broad breast, And wade the sedgy marsh,—gave way at last! But still the spirit, o’er the flesh triumphant, Registered till the “hand had lost its cunning,” The record precious of that life’s last task, Which only death could end.... He died alone: none saw the spirit part. Thus had he willed to die;—alone with God. The morning greeting of his faithful band No longer met the welcome, kind response. The spirit had gone home; and gone in silence;— And there knelt lifeless clay! And none were nigh, Save Afric’s swarthy sons. But these had learned To love and reverence him whose life was given A sacrifice for injured Afric’s weal; And they would guard his relics, e’en in death. They left his heart where fitly it should rest; And bore, in reverent hands, the faded form, Rudely, but lovingly embalmed; and after days, And weeks, and months, of weary toil, Gave to its kindred their last sacred trust;— And there it lies!—and thousands stand around, To do the martyr honour as he rests. And now “his body” sinks from mortal sight, Midst showers of amaranths, and fragrant flowers, That, white and pure, fall fast from loving hands. “Buried in peace,” it lies, ’mongst kindred heroes: While white-robed choristers, and organ pealing, Blend in the final, loud, triumphant strain, And the high arches echo as they sing,— “But his soul liveth! Liveth Evermore!” Rev. H. H. Dugmore. Stormberg, May 1874.