The Death of Saul | Page 9

of slavery, to bind?With tyrant fancy vassals to his will:?All hearts beat quick with sympathetic thrill?For one who loved the humblest of their kind.
His kingdom rang with fealty from the free--?Such blessed faith as faith itself ensures.?His reign alone that sway which e'er secures?A subject's true and trustful sympathy.
So love men's love begat in bounteous flow;?It blossomed round his path as flowers bloom,?Filling his life with such a rare perfume?Of heart's devotion kings can seldom know.
His master-mind, with almost boundless reach,?Planned work so vast that mankind, wondering still,?Could scarcely compass his gigantic will?Which grasped great things as ocean clasps the beach.
His home of homes was where the Cyclops forged?Their bolts, as though for Jove to hold his own:?His fondest study where, through ages grown,?The silent ores old Cambria's mountains gorged.
Mammoth machines that, with incessant whirl,?Rolled onward ever on their ponderous way:?Gigantic marvels, deafening in their play,?And swift, industrious, never-ending swirl.
All these he loved, as men alone can love?The things that win their love: to _him_ they shone?Instinct with living beauty all their own,?Touched with a light divine as from above.
_For_ them, and _with_ them, toiled he day by day?In true companionship: they were his Friends,?Bound by the tie whose influence never ends,?By faithful bonds which never pass away.
And as the sunflower looks towards the light?All through the livelong day, so did his heart?Ne'er from this bond of love play recreant part,?But every moment beat that heart aright;
A heart so large and true--true to the core;?So spacious that the great might enter in;?Yet none too poor its sympathy to win,?And every throb a pleasure at their door.
And so, through all the toilful hours of thought,?He reared a world-wide pinnacle of fame,?Whose summit reached, his heart was still the same,?Undazed by splendours which his hand had wrought.
Long stood he on the topmost peak of praise?From tongues of men, as mountains tipped with snow?Stand with their lofty foreheads all a-glow,?Lit up with beauty by the sun's bright rays.
His life was climaxed by a kinglier dower?Than even kings themselves can hope to reach;?No grander, prouder lesson can we teach,?Than win great things by self-inherent power.
Brighter examples manhood cannot show,?Than with true hand, brave heart, and sleepless mind,?To build up name and fortune 'midst their kind,?From grains and drops--as worlds and oceans grow.
So, in the rare meridian of his time,?In pride of conscious strength, he stood alone,?A king of kings upon his Iron Throne,?Wrought out from humble step to height sublime,
As shadows lengthen in the setting sun,?So spread the stature of his later life,?Which, like Colossus, o'er earth's busy strife,?Towered grandly till that life's last sand was run.
And so he passed away, as meteors die;?Leaving a trail of splendour here on earth?To mark the road he took in virtuous worth,?In sterling truth, and rare integrity.
These are the living landmarks he has left:?Bright jewels in his earthly sojourn set,?Whose brilliance seen, those looking ne'er forgot:?A glorious heritage for friends bereft.
Such gems as those who mourn may still adore,?Whose glistening rays men's footsteps lead aright?Through life's dark way, like glow-worms in the night,?Or angel-glintings from the eternal shore.
As round decaying flowers perfume clings?In silent tribute to the blossoms dead,?So memory, brooding o'er his spirit fled,?Nought but the sweetest recollection brings.
ELEGIES
NASH VAUGHAN EDWARDES VAUGHAN.
(OF RHEOLA.)
DIED SEPTEMBER 18TH, 1868. (_a_)
I.
Let bard on battle-field, in sounding verse,?Proclaim to distant time the warrior-deed?That makes a hero, whose triumphal hearse?Rolls graveward o'er a thousand hearts that bleed?In widowed agony. Let golden lyre?Of regal Court engaged in worldly strife?Clothe princely foibles with poetic fire,?And crown with fame a king's ignoble life.?Let chroniclers of Camp and Court proclaim?A Warrior's greatness, and a Monarch's fame.?Be mine with verse the tomb of one to grace?Whose nobler deeds deserve a nobler place.
II.
The lofty fane that cleaves the glowing sky,?And heavenward points with golden finger-tip--?Structure whence flows the sacred harmony?Of prayer and praise from Christian heart and lip:?The ranging corridors where--blest the task--?'Tis ours to soothe the fever and the pain?Of wounded natures, who, despairing, ask?For healing touch that makes them whole again.?These are the monuments that proudly stand?On corner stones--fruit of his princely hand:?Homes for the poor, wound-stricken to the sod;?And altars for the worship of his God.
III.
The blazing meteor glares along the sky;?The thunder shakes the mountain with its roar;?But meteors for a moment live--then die:?The thunder peals--and then is heard no more.?The most refreshing rains in silence fall;?The most entrancing tones are sweet and low;?The greatest, mightiest truths, are simplest all;?Life's dearest light comes forth in voiceless flow;?E'en so his heart and hand were ever found?Flinging in mute beneficence around?The germs of Truth and Charity combined,?To heal the heart and purify the mind.
(_a_) The life of Mr. Vaughan was one daily round of charitable deeds, in furtherance of religion and social amelioration. His munificent donation to the Swansea Hospital, offered conditionally, led to the enlarged