Silently springing upward, as grow the things of God,
His life grew up among us, and cast its shade abroad;

Silently, as the sapling grows to the forest oak; —
As the Temple on the Hill of God, profaned by no rude stroke.

Silently, as the sunlight deepens through all the air,
Till, scarcely thinking whence it comes, we feel it everywhere; —

Yet only as he leaves us, we gaze upon the sun,
And as we say, " How beautiful! " he sets, and day is done.

Silently pressing onward, as work the men of God,
The lowly path of duty, on the dizzy heights he trod —

Gifted with powers which meaner men with fadeless bays have crowned;
With a poet's sense of beauty in hue, and form, and sound;

Steadfastly, as for life or fame, — yet not for self, — he wrought;
But royally for others spent strength, and time, and thought;

In guiding other men to fame, — showing what fame should be, —
Inspiring other men to do, and training them to see;

Lightening the heart of genius from the crippling load of care;
Making poor men's homes more home-like, and all men's homes more fair;

Bringing beauty like the sunshine, into common things, and small;
Ennobling toil for working-men, ennobling life for all!

In lowly, self-forgetful works, none but the noblest do,
Till few among the mighty have left a fame so true;

Living a life so meekly great beside an empire's throne,
That the humblest man among us by it might mould his own;

Dying, to bind a nation, as only tears can bind,
For once, with all its myriad aims, one home, one heart, one mind;

Crowned by an empire's sorrow, mourning from end to end;
Wept silently in countless homes, as each had lost a friend.

Thus silently God took him, early ripened in his prime,
From the echoes and the shadows of these dim shores of Time;

To the Song which wakes the echoes, broken here by din and strife;
To the Light which casts the shadows, the Light in whom is life;

To the Throne for us abandoned once, for the Cross, and shame, and pain;
To the One who sits there evermore, — the One who has been slain;

To the living, loving Fountain of all great, and good, and fair, —
To dwell with Him for ever, and be made perfect there!

And e'en from such a home as his, where all earth's best was blent,
Can we doubt, when God thus called him, that willingly he went?

But for that perfect home his loss has left so desolate,
And for that woe, made matchless by years of joy so great,

Thy people would have shed their blood this woe from thee to keep;
But now what can thy nation do, our Queen, for thee but weep!

Yet surely God has balms for pain nothing on earth can still;
Love which can soothe its bitterness, Duty its void to fill.

First folding to One boundless heart of ever-present Love
The weeping children wandering here, and those at home above.

Then when the sharp new anguish, now so keen and quick and strange,
Has sunk into the slow dull pain, the blank that cannot change,

With the sacred tones of Duty, Love wakes the heart again;
" Life is no empty barren waste, and grief is not in vain. "

Empty for none; and least of all, Mother and Queen, for thee;
Could tears but tell thee what thou art to us, and still shalt be!

What it has been to England, through years of storm and gloom,
To honour in her highest place, for a chair of state, — a home!

Could'st thou but know the healing dews of honest, loving tears,
Which flow for thee, from eyes long dried by the dull weight of cares;

Or how the love thy life has won through all thy happy years,
Deepened to tenderest reverence, now soars to heaven in prayers;

Oh, would not all the track of life, which seems so long to grief,
Filled with such service for thy land, even to thee seem brief?