Canto VII

" Build me a hut to die in ! — nevermore
May I behold my land, or my beloved."
So spake the Master ; for the end was near ;
Whom his dark silent followers obey.
For Livingstone, resuming his life-load
With a light heart, for all his years, and frame
Outworn with mighty labour and long pain,
Help'd even more the Mistress of his .soul,

His dark and awful Mistress, Africa.
But that inveterate foe, the dire disease,"
Watching lynx-eyed for opportunity,
Found it, alas ! when, with a dwindling life,
The old, but still young-hearted traveller
Would flounder, as in manhood's vigorous prime.
Through foul morasses, many hours a day.
The foe sprang on him ; and he felt full well
Its gripe this time was mortal : then the flesh
Quail'd and rebell'd— let him but struggle home !
Homeward they hasten — life ebbing apace.
And first he rides ; but soon they carry him.
So when they have arrived at Muilala,
He bows the head — "A hut where I may die ! "

Now all the mists of death pass over him :
Terrible pain, ill dreams ; with longings vain
For one glimpse of a loving face afar.
It is the hour of mortal agony.
Watchman ! will the terrible night soon pass?
Then through the darkness mounts a bitter cry ;
As through more darkness upon Calvary
Rose a more bitter crying from the Lord.

Gloomy the night and sullen ; whose faint breath
Moans among grasses of a lonely hut ;
While Bemba mourns with dying wave afar . . .
. . . Behold ! a dim procession slowly moves
Athwart the gloom ! phantasmal Hero-forms,
.Scarr'd as with thunder ; marr'd, yet glorious ;
Their pale brows aureoled with martyr-flame;
Lovers of men, sublime in suffering ;
Patriots of all races and all time ;
Christian confessors whom the world admires ;
And some, whom none regarded, saving
Heaven.
They are come to claim their brother ; and the First
Seems like unto the lowly Son of God.

"Strew grass upon the hut ; for I am cold !"
And those dark silent followers obey.
But Majuahra kneels beside the bed ;
Dark Majuahra, a young slave set free,
Kneels by a rude bed in a bough-ljuilt hut ;
And while his tears fall on the wasted hand,
That never did a fellow-creature wrong,
But only wrought deliverance for all ;
After the fourth day of his coming there,
At solemn midnight, noble Livingstone,
Saying, in a low voice, " I am going home ! "
Quietly sleeping, enters into rest.
A lamp faint glimmers on the little slave,
As on those grand wan features of the dead . . .
. . . Daylight has dawn'd— the Conqueror is crown'd !

Then all consult what it were best to do.
And his true followers, whom he has loved,
And taught, and saved from bondage worse than death,
Who have shared his perils and long wanderings ;
Chumah, Hamoyda, Susi, and the rest ;
Resolve to bear away the dear remains.
Even to the coast — a thousand miles away !
That so the English may receive their Chief,
And bring him home — where he desired to be.
But fearing lest the village interpose.
They hide the truth of their commander's death ;
And, building a high fence around a booth.
Bury the body's inner parts beneath
A shadowy tree, with solemn funeral rites ;
Carving thereover name and date of death.
All that remains they reverently prepare
During twelve mournful days beneath the sun,
Embalming it with salt that purifies.
Last in rude bark of a great tree they bear him
Toward the isle of clove and cinnamon,
Bulbul and orange, and pomegranate flower;
Carrying their dead Leader to the sea,
Who in glad triumph should have brought them there !