DAVID LIVINGSTONE.

Westport Times, Volume VIII, Issue 1160, 20 March 1874, Page 4

DAVID LIVINGSTONE.

[dttnedih evening stab.] Dowu many a giant stream, whose place of birth, Lies hidden in the distance from our ken, And from the nooks and corners of the earth, Where darkness shrouds the souls of savage men, A dirge steals softly on the breath of night, Which tells us of a noble spirit fled To find the mystic source of truth and light, Aud read the book that mortals have not read.

Where shall wo meet with courage true and grand As that which stayed the brave old wanderer's heart ? Homo, pleasure, friendship, love, and native land He left, to trace the world's mysterious chart.

Adown the valleys where Zambesi runs, Aloug the JS'ile, and by Nyassa's lake, To Earth's degraded aud benighted sons He brought the peaceful words which Jesus spake.

The tameless Berber reigns bis steed to gaze With wondering pity on that tranquil face ; The grateful Ethiopian chants the praise Of him who brought " glad tidings " to his race.

When Livingstone is named/what fool shall dare To boast of war's red tyrants, robed in blood, Who sacrifice the serfs for vultures' fare, Who call it glory, to give ravens food.

When battle's trumpets sound, aud bauuers stream, The mad blood flies to the enthusiast's brain, Aud where the war-drums roll and sabres gleam, His fiery spirit seeks the purple plain.

The yeoman, fenced within his narrow homo, Bursts the old Hubs and seeks for freer skies ; Nor fears to cross the ever-shifting foam, Hope tells his heart he goes to win a prize.

But this great mau left all wealth's gilts behind, Ease could not bind him to Lis native shore; His bosom glowed to benefit his kind, To bear off knowledge and return with more.

He marched through trackless wilds and deserts drear Although Heath's footsteps dogged his every pace ; The cause ho lived for shielded him 'gainst fear, His soul could meet the Spectre face to face.

Array tho monarch's dust in pomp and pride. Whilst flatterers his doubtful virtues sing; A grander death this greater old victor died Than England's boldest dulse or bravest king.

No cultivated sigh, nor polished tear Bedecks the couch whereon our hero sleeps ; A purer tribute falls upon his ILr, For lo ! above his corpse the savage weeps. Thqiu.3 BrAOKEBTi