Hail to the man, of men the chief!
He tow'rs above our time,
Like to the peak of Teneriffe,
Majestic and sublime.

He treads the path the great have trod,
Retains, 'mid jeer and ban,
Faith in the Fatherhood of God,
And Brotherhood of man;

One of the high, heroic souls,
That God appoints to find
A pathway for humanity
Upon the march of mind;

That put traditions to the rout—
What need they be afraid of?—
And turn our idols inside out,
And show what rags they're made of;

Whose thoughts are falling down in showers
The masses to awaken,
And principalities and powers
To their foundations shaken.

He hears within the high command,
With his own soul engages,
From tyrannies to rid the land,
And right the wrongs of ages.

This “Grand Old Man” has blown a blast
That's waken'd in affright
The spectres grim, the things aghast,
Of Chaos and old Night.

Tho' oft a mark set up for hate,
He's at this very hour
Great Britain's only truly great
And stanchest living power.

The heights of fame oft he did scale,
Unspoil'd by adulation;
Now, unalarm'd, he walks the vale
Of deep humiliation.

What matters who may bless or ban,
By whom he's lov'd or hated?
To-day, to be the “Grand Old Man,”
To-morrow, execrated.

But even in the darkest day
He flinches not from duty,
And aye's attended by a ray
Of truth and moral beauty—

A beauty, an urbanity,
In all that he doth teach;
The music of humanity
Is ringing in his speech;

Above the pall that hangs o'er all
We hear his ringing voice;
Above the din of selfish sin
We hear him and rejoice.

Such men are never vanquish'd, tho'
From pow'r they may be hurl'd;
Their motto still, as on they go,
Is “Truth against the World.”