John Dunmore Lang
The song that is last of the manyWhose music is full of thy name,Is weaker, O father! than any,Is fainter than flickering flame.But far in the folds of the mountainsWhose bases are hoary with sea,By lone immemorial fountainsThis singer is mourning for thee.
Because thou wert chief and a giantWith those who fought on for the rightA hero determined, defiant;As flame was the sleep of thy might.Like Stephen in days that are olden,Thy lot with a rabble was cast,But seasons came on that were golden,And Peace was thy mother at last.
I knew of thy fierce tribulation,Thou wert ever the same in my thought—The father and friend of a nationThrough good and through evil report.At Ephesus, fighting in fetters,Paul drove the wild beasts to their pen;So thou with the lash of thy lettersWhipped infamy back to its den.
The noise of thy battle is over,Thy sword is hung up in its sheath;Thy grave has been decked by its loverWith beauty of willowy wreath.The winds sing about thee for ever,The voices of hill and of sea;But the cry of the conflict will neverBring sorrow again unto thee.