(November 6th, 1886) <br /> <br />With speechless lips and solemn tread <br /> They brought the Lawyer-Statesman home: <br />They laid him with the gather'd dead, <br /> Where rich and poor like brothers come. <br /> <br />How bravely did the stripling climb, <br /> From step to step the rugged hill: <br />His gaze thro' that benighted time <br /> Fix'd on the far-off beacon still. <br /> <br />He faced the storm that o'er him burst, <br /> With pride to match the proudest born: <br />He bore unblench'd Detraction's worst, -- <br /> Paid blow for blow, and scorn for scorn. <br /> <br />He scaled the summit while the sun <br /> Yet shone upon his conquer'd track: <br />Nor falter'd till the goal was won, <br /> Nor struggling upward, once look'd back. <br /> <br />But what avails the "pride of place", <br /> Or winged chariot rolling past? <br />He heeds not now who wins the race, <br /> Alike to him the first or last.<br /><br />Sir Henry Parkes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-buried-chief/
