took me by the hand,
And led me towards another land.

LIVINGSTONE.

Buried in Westminster Abbey, April, 1874.

BY HENRY LLOYD.

With solemn march and slow a soldier comes,
In conquest fallen; home we bring him dead;
Stand silent by, beat low the muffled drums,
Uncover ye, and bow the reverent head.

Where ghostly echoes dwell and grey light falls,
Where Kings and Heroes rest in honoured sleep;
Their names steel bitten on the sacred walls,
Inter his dust, while England bends to weep.

Stir not ye Kings and Heroes in your rest,
Lest these poor bones dishonour such as you;
This man was both, though nodding plume or crest
Ne'er waved above his eye so bright and true.

By no sad orphan is his name abhorred,
A hero, yet no battered shield he brings.
Nor on his bier a blood encrusted sword;
Nor as his trophies Kings, nor crowns of Kings.

War hath its heroes, Peace hath hers as well,
Armed by Heaven's King from Heaven's armoury;
And this dead man was one, who fought and fell,
Life less his choice, than death and victory.

To do his work with purpose iron strong,
To loose the captive, set the prisoner free;
To heal the hideous sore of deadly wrong
Kept festering by greed and cruelty;

Love on his banner, Pity in his heart;
His lofty soul moved on with single aim;
'Mid deadly perils bore a noble part,
And, dying, left a pure, unsullied name.

Thro' dreary miles of foul eternal swamp,
And over lonely leagues of burning sand,
He wrought his purpose; Faith his quenchless lamp,
And Truth his sword held as in giant's hand.

His lot was as his sorrowing Master's lot,
Nowhere to lay his weary honoured head;
"My limbs they fail me, and my brow is hot;
Build me a hut--wherein--to die," he said.

"Ah, England, I shall see thee nevermore.
Farewell, my loved ones, far o'er ocean's foam;
Ye watch in vain on that dear mother shore,"
He looked to Heaven and cried, "I'm going home."

Home, sweetest word that ever man has made,
Home, after weariness and toil and pain;
Home to his Father's house all unafraid,
Home to his rest, no more to weep again.

How found they him, this hero of all time?
Dead on his knees, as if at last he said:
"Into thy hands, O God!" with faith sublime;
And death looked on, scarce knowin