Henry Morton Stanley
Large shall his name be writ, with that strong line,
Of heroes, martyrs, soldiers, saints, who gave
Their lives to chart the waste, and free the slave,
In the dim Continent where his beacons shine.
Rightly they call him Breaker of the Path,
Who was no cloistered spirit, remote and sage,
But a swift swordsman of our wrestling age,
Warm in his love, and sudden in his wrath.
How many a weary league beneath the Sun
The tireless foot had traced, that lies so still.
Now sinks the craftsman’s hand, the sovereign will;
Now sleeps the unsleeping brain, the day’s work done.
Muffle the drums and let the death-notes roll,
One of the mightier dead is with us here;
Honour the vanward’s Chief, the Pioneer,
Do fitting reverence to a warrior soul.
But far away his monument shall be,
In the wide lands he opened to the light,
By the dark Forest of the tropic night,
And his great River winding to the Sea.
Sidney Low.
May 13, 1904.