When from his place a forest monarch falls, <br />A thunder shakes the leafy leagues across, <br />Reverberating to its utmost walls: <br />So through an Empire rings this sound of loss. <br />Still, as of old, the kingless forest-aisles <br />We see—but not the strength that was their fame: <br />So, at Death’s voice, far from his kingless aisles <br />The last Great Tribune answers to his name. <br /> <br />Nature, that builds great minds for mighty tasks, <br />Sculptured his frame to match the soul within; <br />Taught him how wisdom wields the power it asks; <br />For each new conquest set him more to win. <br /> <br />Rough-hewn was he for power, a massive mould, <br />Broad-brained, far-sighted, honourable, free <br />From narrowing envy, with a heart of gold <br />As wide and deep and dominant as the sea. <br /> <br />He passes, but his memory is power. <br />Behind him lives the good that none may stay; <br />His name remains a beacon-light, a tower <br />By which all feebler hearts may guide their way. <br /> <br />Come, let us follow him with reverent feet, <br />With fern and rata twine the wattle fair; <br />Tread soft: a mighty heart has ceased to beat <br />And one of Nature’s kings is sleeping there.<br /><br />George Essex Evans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seddon/
