Poems (Rowe)/General Gordon
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GENERAL GORDON
(Killed 26 January 1885)
ILL-FATED Rumour clad in Death's pale guise,
Utters a sound our hearts slow credence give;
Gordon is dead! O Englishmen, arise!
He's dead, and bitter shame! His Murderers live.
Utters a sound our hearts slow credence give;
Gordon is dead! O Englishmen, arise!
He's dead, and bitter shame! His Murderers live.
No holy rites of burial they gave,
No solemn march, or pibroch's accents wild;
No people's tears were shed upon his grave,
His eyes unkissed by tender wife or child.
No solemn march, or pibroch's accents wild;
No people's tears were shed upon his grave,
His eyes unkissed by tender wife or child.
Yet here we mourn our gallant Hero dead,
Our souls with bitterness and anguish filled,
Lie stricken for the mighty spirit fled,
Whose great heart Death, his only Conqu'rer, stilled.
Our souls with bitterness and anguish filled,
Lie stricken for the mighty spirit fled,
Whose great heart Death, his only Conqu'rer, stilled.
Thy death shall be avenged, Great Britain's Son!
Be hers the righteous task, dear Lord, Thou know'st,
Since when the World began, no greater one
Can Mother's heart, or Earth, or Heaven boast!
Be hers the righteous task, dear Lord, Thou know'st,
Since when the World began, no greater one
Can Mother's heart, or Earth, or Heaven boast!