Читать книгу Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Страница 16

Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp,

   And bring it here to me,

For I must sing another song,

   The theme of which shall be, —

A worthy old philanthropist,

   Whose soul in goodness soars,

And one whose name will stand as firm

   As rocks that gird our shores;

The fine old Bradford gentleman,

   The good Sir Titus Salt.

Heedless of others; some there are,

   Who all their days employ

To raise themselves, no matter how,

   And better men destroy:

How different is the mind of him,

   Whose deeds themselves are told,

Who values worth more nobly far

   Than all the heaps of gold.

His feast and revels are not such,

   As those we hear and see,

No princely show does he indulge,

   Nor feats of revelry;

But in the orphan schools they are,

   Or in the cot with her,

The widow and the orphan of

   The shipwrecked mariner,

When stricken down with age and care,

   His good old neighbours grieved,

Or loss of family or mate,

   Or all on earth bereaved;

Go see them in their houses,

   Where peace their days may end,

And learn from them the name of him

   Who is their aged friend.

With good and great his worth shall live,

   With high or lowly born;

His name is on the scroll of fame,

   Sweet as the songs of morn;

While tyranny and villany

   Is surely stamped with shame;

A nation gives her patriot

   A never-dying fame.

No empty titles ever could

   His principles subdue,

His queen and country too he loved, —

   Was loyal and was true:

He craved no boon from royalty,

   Nor wished their pomp to share,

Far nobler is the soul of him,

   The founder of Saltaire.

Thus lives this sage philanthropist,

   From courtly pomp removed,

But not secluded from his friends,

   For frienship’s bond he loved;

A noble reputation too

   Crowns all his latter days;

The young men they admire him,

   And the aged they him praise.

Long life to thee, Sir Titus,

   The darling of our town;

Around thy head while living,

   We’ll weave a laurel crown.

Thy monument in marble

   May suit the passer by,

But a monument in all our hearts

   Will never, never die.

And when thy days are over,

   And we miss thee on our isle,

Around thy tomb for ever

   May unfading laurels smile:

Then may the sweetest flowers

   Usher in the spring;

And roses in the gentle gales,

   Their balmy odours fling.

May summer’s beams shine sweetly,

   Upon thy hallowed clay,

And yellow autumn o’er thy head,

   Yield many a placid ray;

May winter winds blow slightly, —

   The green-grass softly wave,

And falling snow drop lightly

   Upon thy honoured grave.