George Essex Evans (Джордж Эссекс Эванс)

Seddon

When from his place a forest monarch falls,
   A thunder shakes the leafy leagues across,
Reverberating to its utmost walls:
   So through an Empire rings this sound of loss.

Still, as of old, the kingless forest-aisles
   We see—but not the strength that was their fame:
So, at Death’s voice, far from his kingless aisles
   The last Great Tribune answers to his name.

Nature, that builds great minds for mighty tasks,
   Sculptured his frame to match the soul within;
Taught him how wisdom wields the power it asks;
   For each new conquest set him more to win.

Rough-hewn was he for power, a massive mould,
   Broad-brained, far-sighted, honourable, free
From narrowing envy, with a heart of gold
   As wide and deep and dominant as the sea.

He passes, but his memory is power.
   Behind him lives the good that none may stay;
His name remains a beacon-light, a tower
   By which all feebler hearts may guide their way.

Come, let us follow him with reverent feet,
   With fern and rata twine the wattle fair;
Tread soft: a mighty heart has ceased to beat
   And one of Nature’s kings is sleeping there.

1. The Spirit of Poetry
2. “But the Greatest of These is Charity”
3. The Dead Democrat
4. Women of the West
5. Eland’s River

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