THAT boat needs no mortal's mooring -- sad at heart he seeks his bed,
For his life henceforth is clouded -- he hath piloted the Dead!




Sir Henry Parkes.



The Buried Chief

(November 6th, 1886)


With speechless lips and solemn tread
They brought the Lawyer-Statesman home:
They laid him with the gather'd dead,
Where rich and poor like brothers come.

How bravely did the stripling climb,
From step to step the rugged hill:
His gaze thro' that benighted time
Fix'd on the far-off beacon still.

He faced the storm that o'er him burst,
With pride to match the proudest born:
He bore unblench'd Detraction's worst, --
Paid blow for blow, and scorn for scorn.