Stafford Henry Northcote
Gentle in fibre, but of steadfast nerve
Still to do right though right won blame not praise,
And fallen on evil tongues and evil days
When men from plain straight duty twist and swerve,
And, born to nobly sway, ignobly serve,
Sliming their track to power through tortuous ways,
He felt, with that fine sense that ne’er betrays,
The line of moral beauty’s not a curve.
But, proving wisdom folly, virtue vain,
He stretched his hands out to the other shore,
And was by kindred spirits beckoned o’er
Into the gloaming Land where setteth pain,
While we across the silent river strain
Idly our gaze, and find his form no more.
