I heard a knell
Toll slow amid the consecrated isles
Where slumber England's dead. A solemn dirge
Broke forth amid the tomb of kings, and said,
That man was dust. And then a nation's tears
Fell down like rain, for it was meet to mourn.
But from the land of palm-trees where doth flow
Sweet incense forth from grove, and gum, and flower,
Came richer tribute, breathing o'er that tomb
A prostrate nation's thanks.
Yes, Afric knelt,
That mourning mother, and throughout the earth
Taught her unletter'd children to repeat
The name of Wilberforce, and bless the spot
Made sacred by his ashes. Yea, the world
Arose upon her crumbling throne, to praise
The lofty mind that never knew to swerve,
Though holy truth should summon it to meet
The frown of the embattled universe.
And so I bowed me down in this far nook
Of the far West, and proudly traced the name
Of Wilberforce upon my country's scroll,
To be her guide, as she unchain'd the slave,
And the bright model of her sons who seek
True glory. And from every village-haunt,
And school, where rustic science quaintly reigns,
I called the little ones, and forth they came
To hear of Afric's champion and to bless
The firm in purpose and the full of days.
