Hon. William Porter, C.M.G. — An Elegy
The mighty falls: Time’s restless wing
Has sped the day,
For him!—beloved as Camelot’s blameless king—
To pass away.
And briny tears bedew the date
In which that life so marvellously great,
Our friend—grand Porter’s self—succumbs, at last, to Fate.
He died at home: his labour ceased
Where it began;
While gathering honours, with his years increased;
Colossal man!
To Africa—that long abode,
His work and love discharged the debt he owed;
Long toil of years—to him—Life’s grandest Episode.
The Libyan clime, in youth became
His destined soil;
Where Time and Fate, the laurels of his fame,
Can ne’er despoil.
A grateful continent shall pour
Her griefs for him whose face we see no more:
And mourn as great a man as ever touched her shore.
Mourn, soil of grief, your champion bold,
Whose work is done;
Mourn, land of Ham, as Egypt did of old,
For Jacob’s son.
The mighty falls!—the Chieftain high—
Whose worth not Vaal nor Treasury could buy,
Had reached his native land, and reached it but to die.
Approach his grave; oh, sight sublime!
“Last scene of all.”
Let kindred spirits of the olden time
Attend his pall.
First that Athenian, who alone
In days of tyranny—not since unknown—
With voice of thunder moved the Macedonian throne.
Let Aristides, too, be there—
The just one still;
’Tis not in Death—on land, or sea, or air,
Such minds to kill.
Let mighty shades press to the van—
From Cataline’s arraigner to the man
Who raised a righteous wail for injured Hindostan.
Let crowding myriads view in tears,
The hero’s grave;
Earth yields to earth; a mortal disappears,
No love can save.
Lost but to sight; in fame alive,
Long shall his name our blinding tears survive,
And numbers from his dust, true virtue long derive.
Repose, great one, in lasting rest
Dear friends among;
What rank, what tribe, what country loved thee best
Remains unsung.
Pride of the Senate and the Bar!
’Tis ours, alas! to wail thy loss afar,
Who ’neath the Southern Cross long hailed thee as a star.
Thou wert our Statesman—to apply
Wise counsels best;
No selfish partisan to raise a cry
For East or West.
Prepared for Right to stand or fall—
Deaf to the foeman’s threat, or bigot’s call—
’Twas thine to live and die, the sire and friend of all.
Who shall succeed thee in our love?
Who fill thy chair?
Shall we, ignoring succour from above,
Yield to despair?
No, never, while in hour of need
A champion stands, as he who runs may read—
A Sprigg well worthy power; yea, Porter to succeed.
Stafford Cruikshanks.