_Bishop of Melbourne_, _who left Melbourne for the Bishopric of
Manchester_, 10_th_ _March_ 1886.
He came, a stranger, and we gave him welcome
More as loved friend than rumour's honoured guest.
He spoke! Were we, then, all so slack to listen?
To hail him as our wisest, noblest, best?
_Why did he leave us_?
He toiled! And we, we under such a leader,
Forgot all other creeds, but that he taught,
And proud of our clear answer to his summons,
Forgot all other fights but that he fought!
_Why did he leave us_?
He wearied! 'Twas too great, he said, the burden.
We saw it and we cried with anxious love;
"What does he (Let him back!) down in the battle?
Is not the general's place at rest above?"
_Why did he leave us_?
He left us for a "wider sphere of labour!"
A tinsel seat within a House that shakes,
To herd with priests meal-mouthed, with lords and liars
That still would bind a nation's chain that breaks!
_Why did he leave us_?
Farewell, then! Are there any to reproach you
In all this facile crowd that weeps and cheers?
Not one! But, ah you yet shall listen sadly
To an echo falling faint through the dead years:--
_Why did he leave us_?
IN THE SEA-GARDENS.
(_Sydney_.)
"THE MAN OF THE NATION."
Yonder the band is playing
And the fine young people walk.
They are envying each other and talking
Their pretty empty talk.
There, in the shade on the outskirts,
Stretched on the grass, I see
A man with a slouch hat, smoking.
That is the man for me!
That is the Man of the Nation;
He works and much endures.
When all the rest is rotten,
He rises and cuts and cures.
He's the soldier of the Crimea,
Fighting to honour fools;
He's the grappler and strangler of Lee
Lord of the terrible tools.
He's in all the conquered nations
That have won their own at last,
And in all that yet shall win it.
And the world by him goes past!
O strong sly world, this nameless
Still, much-enduring Man,
Is the hand of God that shall clutch you
For all you have done, or can!
"UPSTARTS."
What? do you say that we, the toilers--the slaves--
(Why strain at the gnat name
Who swallow the camel thing your pocket craves?)--
That we are "just the same,"
(Nay, worse) when power is ours and wealth--that we
Are harder masters still,
More keen to ring her last from misery,
More greedy of our will?
'Tis true! And when you see men so--see _us_
Sneer at us, call us swine!--
"_How we must love you who have made us thus_,
_You may perhaps divine_!"