(James Braidwood of the London Fire Brigade; died June, 1861.)
Not at the battle front, writ of in story,
Not in the blazing wreck, steering to glory;
Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,
Died he--this Hero now; hero forever.
No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him;
No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him;
Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty.
Only an honest man doing his duty;
Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,
Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy;
Death found--and touched him with finger in flying--
Lo! he rose up complete--hero undying.
Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him,
Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;
Tell his last act; done 'midst peril appalling,
And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;
Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;
Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.
So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,
Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.
Then the Lord calls his own--like this man, even,
Carried, Elijah-like, fire-winged, to heaven.
--Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.
Unless above himself he can
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.
--Samuel Daniel.