The Grand Old Man

Now the long volume of his life,
As all in turn must be,
Is closed, and placed remote from strife
In Death's black library,

Eternal honour to the nan.e
Kept clean from youth to age,
With scarce a blot of sin or shame
Upon the splendid page!

The Grand Old Man! how few have writ
A scroll so clean and clear! —
Pilgrims shall come and ponder it
For many and many a year;

And ever as their eyes are cast
Upon it shall descry,
Yea, from the front page till the last,
The name of the Most High!

For in an age where strong men doubt
This strong man doubted nought,
But mail'd in faith, passed in and out
The wind-blown flames of Thought;

And ever from his lips there came
The words of happy prayer,
With which he, child-like, sought to shame
The pessimist's despair.

Ah, well, he was, when all is said,
A gracious soul and kind —
I do not weep that he is dead,
I weep that he was blind!

Blind with the Light that sears the sight
With sheer excess of Day, —
So true, so eager for the Right,
And yet — so oft astray!

A mighty leader and a guide,
He led men long and well,
First in the van, tho' blown aside
By breaths from Heaven or Hell!

Out of his very weakness strong,
His very blindness brave,
Serene and calm he march'd along
To no inglorious grave.

And round him now the ribald throng
That mock'd his march is dumb,
And honouring what they fear'd so long
The rival factions come, —

SJay, priests of every creed attest
Him King of Humankind,
Blessed "mong men, but blessedest
Because his eyes were blind!

II.

Battle and Storm? God screen'd his form
From all Life's fiercest airs;
His battle was of words, his storm
Was one to lay with prayers!

As true as steel, as pure as snow,
He lived his gentle life
Too shielded in his place to know
The stress of human strife, —

The woe, the anguish, the despair,
Of mortals tempest-toss'd;
In his soul's sails the wind blew fair
Even when he struggled most!

Easy it seems for such a man
To keep his soul's page white —
God never bow'd him with His ban
Or marr'd him with His blight!

His gentle hand ne'er lifted up
The load of human pain,
His lips not even touch'd the cup
The broken-hearted drain;

He thirsted not, nor lack'd for food,
Nor stricken earthward grieved,
But, sure that God was kind and good,
He gladden'd and believed!

His rose-crown'd cup ran o'er the brim
With wine, not tear-drops sad —
His God was very good to him,
And kept him blind and glad!

ILL.

Peace, he was pure, — let that suffice!
And brave in word and deed,—
Why envy, in these caves of ice,
The sunshine of his creed?

The wind we feel so chill blows fresh
On him, and such as he, —
Tho' God who fashioneth the flesh
Sendeth the Leprosy!

Blest was his child-like faith and prayer,
If not afar, yet here, —
How dark and dull seems our despair
Beside a faith so clear!

He walked the broad and easy way
And died and lived a child, —
Yea, even on his stormiest day
Folded his hands and smiled,

Believing all things, doubting not
That all was surely well,—
Upon his soul one only blot,
The death-stain of Parnell!

Cleanse that one blot away, his fame
Was star-like 'mongst his kind, —
Yet even that from goodness came,
Because God kept him blind!