John Dunmore Lang

The song that is last of the many Whose music is full of thy name, Is weaker, O father! than any, Is fainter than flickering flame. But far in the folds of the mountains Whose bases are hoary with sea, By lone immemorial fountains This singer is mourning for thee. Because thou wert chief and a giant With those who fought on for the right A hero determined, defiant; As flame was the sleep of thy might. Like Stephen in days that are olden, Thy lot with a rabble was cast, But seasons came on that were golden, And Peace was thy mother at last. I knew of thy fierce tribulation, Thou wert ever the same in my thought — The father and friend of a nation Through good and through evil report. At Ephesus, fighting in fetters, Paul drove the wild beasts to their pen; So thou with the lash of thy letters Whipped infamy back to its den. The noise of thy battle is over, Thy sword is hung up in its sheath; Thy grave has been decked by its lover With beauty of willowy wreath. The winds sing about thee for ever, The voices of hill and of sea; But the cry of the conflict will never Bring sorrow again unto thee.