[From _Poems and Ballads_, by James R. Fergusson, son of Sir William
Fergusson, Bart.]
To Frank Buckland, energetic protector of fish in particular, and
of all dumb-animal creation, editor of _Land and Water_, son of an
eminent geologist a former Dean of Westminster, belongs the merit
of having suggested that the remains of John Hunter should be
deposited in Westminster Abbey. An order having been issued that all
coffins should be removed from the vaults beneath the Church of St
Martin's-in-the-Fields, Mr Buckland thought of his great professional
brother, long dead, and lying there with no 'storied urn or animated
bust' to mark the spot; and in a short time his generous zeal carried
to a successful issue all proceedings connected with the 'Reinterment
of John Hunter.' The place selected is close below a stone that has
the words 'O rare Ben Jonson!' and I may mention that, standing by the
open grave, I held in my hand the skull that once contained the witty,
learned brain of him who wrote the undying line about Shakspeare:
He was not for an age, but for all time.
Within the walls beneath whose shade
The noblest of our land are laid,
I stood and watched due homage paid
To genius bright--
To one whose fame shall never fade
Nor lose its light.
John Hunter, 'mongst the chief of those
Who study all the earthly woes
That 'gainst our bodies frail are foes,
And wound our breast,
Here in this Abbey finds repose
And honoured rest.
The resting-place that first he found
No fame sufficient did redound,
Though many worthy were around,
Most noble dust.
'Let's place him here;' that sentence sound,
All thought it just.
And here he lies, the man whose fame
Detraction ne'er can put to shame,
Whose glory well his works can claim--
His works that bear
The impress of his mighty name
And genius rare.
In mysteries of creation's plan,
In study of his brother man,
His mind all former minds outran,
And far excelled,
And by its strength and mighty span
His views upheld.
A Scot was Hunter, bright the hour,
When Heaven first gave his spirit power
To reach fair Science' highest bower,
And there remain.
May present Scots, in ample shower,
His fame sustain!
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