C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Westminster Abbey
By Thomas Henry Huxley (1825–1895)
“Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus!”
To me that have grown,
Stone laid upon stone,
As the stormy brood
Of English blood
Has waxed and spread
And filled the world,
With sails unfurled;
With men that may not lie;
With thoughts that cannot die.
Into the storied hall,
Where I have garnered all
My harvest without weed;
My chosen fruits of goodly seed;
And lay him gently down among
The men of State, the men of song:
The men that would not suffer wrong,
The thought-worn chieftains of the mind,
Head servants of the human kind.
The autumn sun shall shed
Its beams athwart the bier’s
Heaped blooms; a many tears
Shall flow; his words, in cadence sweet and strong,
Shall voice the full hearts of the silent throng.
Bring me my dead!
For vanished hand-clasp, drinking in thy fill
Of holy grief; forgive, that pious theft
Robs thee of all save memories left.
Not thine to kneel beside the grassy mound,
While dies the western glow, and all around
Is silence, and the shadows closer creep
And whisper softly, All must fall asleep.