The Caravan

A solemn, strange, a holy Caravan !
When was the like thereof beheld by man ?
Slow journeying from unconjectured lands.
Behold ! they bear him in their gentle hands;
His dark youths bear him in the rude grey bark,
As though their burden were a holiest ark.
Embalm'd they bear him from the lands of
Nile,
As men bore Israel, Abraham, erewhile.
Weary and weak, and faint and fallen ill.
Through desert, jungle, forest wild and still.
By lake, and dismal swamp, and rolling river,
Slowly their dark procession winds for ever.
How would the Chief exult at every sight !
Alas ! those eagle eyes are seal'd in night.
Behold them winding over hill and plain,
In storm, in sunshine, calm and hurricane !
And if they may not hide what thing they bear.
Men banish them with horror and wild fear.
Far from all human dwelling ; nor will feed ;
Nor furnish aught to fill their bitter need ;
Assailing them with hindering word and deed.
But though their burden may not wake to cheer.
The Hero-Spirit hovers very near:
Upon them rests the holy Master's power :
His soul before them moves, a mighty tower !
They, and the body, rest beneath the stars,
Or mooned ghostly-rainbow'd cloudy bars ;
Until at length they hear the sounding sea,
In all the grandeur of Eternity !
A solemn, strange, a holy Caravan !
When was the like thereof beheld by man ?

Now waft him homeward in the gallant ship.
Expanding her white wings for a long flight !
It is not far from when we look'd for him.
In Maytime we had hoped to greet the sail,
Wafting our stainless conqueror to rest
In his own land, irradiate with love,
Wearing our well-earn'd honour on his brow.
Then bells would have peal'd over him, and flowers
Strewn his triumphant path, and shouts of joy
Have rent the summer air to welcome him.
So we have welcomed our victorious
Warriors yesterday from Africa —
.\nd so alas ! have mourn'd the noble band
Who, call'd by honour, gloriously died.
A sail is sighted — he is coming home.
But all fair colours of the many nations
In harbour, flying low from many a mast,
And minute guns, and muffled voice of bells,
With reverent silence of assembling throngs,
And mourning emblems in the public ways,
Mournfully tell of how the hero comes!

Now yet a little further carry him.
Westminster opens wide her ancient doors
For more illustrious dust to enter in.
Honour the noble Scottish weaver-boy,
The lowly-born illustrious Livingstone !
With solemn music we will leave him here,
Among the ashes of our mighty fallen.
Behold ! world-honour'd Shades that haunt the fane,
Statesman, or monarch, poet, soldier, sage —
The while he moves along their awful line
To his own hallow'd English sepulchre ;
From yon far forest of lone Muilala
Moves to more glorious glooms of Westminster—
Bend in a grand reverent humility
Before our stainless warrior of the cross ;
Uncursed of any humblest human soul ;
Blest and for ever to be blest by man ;
Foremost of all explorers ; Liberator
Of the dark continent, and all her sons !

Africa, and America, appear
His mighty mourners ; for a staunchest friend,
Stanley is here ; and here the slave set free,"
Who brought his noble master to the coast ;
The Negro youth, who breathed our English words
Of faithful hope, words we are breathing now,
Over that heart entomb'd in Africa.
For though she hath restored some dust to us,
In life, in death, she claims to hold his heart !
. . . Hath he not died in her own awful arms?
His sons and daughters in deep sable robed
Bear large white wreaths of blossom for his grave :
Yea, dark Death lies all buried and conceal'd
Under sweet emblems of immortal life!
Alas ! if he had come to us alive,
He might have gather'd violets to-day ;
Listening to our earliest nightingale
Under the woodland sprays of soft young green ;
But we have strewn spring flowers upon the bier
And we have wrought in white azaleas
A cross thereover ; while our kindly Queen
Has twined her delicate wreath for him ; and some
Lay fadeless amaranth, with roses rare.
And his own cherish'd palms of Africa,
Palms of the conqueror, upon his breast.
Now while those ashes slowly sink to rest.
All Europe, and his Country bending over ;
While solemn music soars with seraph plume;
Pearly soft sun -rays, like sweet wings of doves,
Enter yon high clerestories, and abide
Athwart grey marrying fans of the dim ceiling:
So all we mourners, piers, and monuments,
Cilow with a rainbow glory, as from Heaven.

Is it not better as the Lord hath will'd ?
On his own chosen battle-field he falls,
Still pressing forward, face toward the foe !
A martyr's death and tomb illume with light
His plain severe sublimity of life.
Could he have borne, who drank the liberal wind
Of deserts, like a lion or a pard,
Our stifling air of dull proprieties,
And pale decorum's mild monotony ?
Who, with clear eyes on the Celestial Pole,
Loved, like an Arab, wandering wild and free !

While some surmise thedubious dim realm,"
Where he surrender'd to a sacred cause
His very life-breath in a life-long war.
Molds verily the furthest founts of Nile !

His death-cold hand unveils a Mystery,
Which all the unyielding ages from of old
Have shrouded in impenetrable gloom ;
A darkness formidable from tongues confused
Of hydra-headed Error, breathing fear.
Champion of knowledge, and celestial love !
Conqueror of unconquerable Nile !
Mortal too bold ! who dared to penetrate
That awful phantom - guarded Presence-chamber,
Where never mortal came !— there blinded fell,
All unaware of his own victory !

For here, between these very parallels.
Ancient Puranas of the Indian
Place Soma Giri ; whence a vast long lake
Amara flows, Amara "of the Gods,"
And from Amara, Nile.

Alas ! he died
Unknowing all the hopeful fruit that Frere
Ripened from those indignant words of truth,
A lone old man, among Hell's legionaries,
Unquailing hurl'd against the slave-trader.
He learn'd stern Baker's wonderful campaign:
Now, peradventure, he hath learn'd the whole !
But if Columbus, voyaging forlorn,
Wandering ever in wan ways unknown
Of shoreless ocean toward the dying day,
Daring, presumptuous mortal ! to assail
Barriers Heaven piles against mankind :
If that Columbus, fronting desperate crews
Of mutinous men, with tranquil eyes unmoved
From all their high and visionary aim ;
Landing at last upon another world,
Conquer'd from chaos in the power of faith,
A blooming world, that seem'd the Paradise
Of our first parents in their innocence,
And proudly named Columbia to-day —
If he, the navigator, lives for ever
In all men's green and grateful memory ;
With Raleigh, Gama, Bruce, and Magelhaens —
Then surely shall our English Livingstone,
Honouring this our own tumultuous time ;
Heroic with immortal heroism.
That burns for ever in humanity ;
Rouse all the race unto a loftier life !