The Dead Democrat
The roar and rush of life sweeps on;
Still shines the sun as once it shone:
Men reap and sow and live and toil
And plan for power and scheme for spoil.
What reeks the world in field or street?—
One heart has ceased to beat.
But She to whom in all the lands
The toilers stretch beseeching hands—
Democracy, the Soul of all,
Marks where her faithful servants fall.
They seek not things that others seek
Who battle for the weak.
Her yoke is heavy to be borne,
Her bitter paths are choked with thorn,
But glorious shines, through mist and haze,
The splendour of her coming days.
Our loftiest tribute shall be then,
“He served his fellow-men.”
