Ilala

The swarthy followers stood aloof,

Unled, unfathered!

He lay beneath that grassy roof

Fresh gathered.

He bade them as they passed the hut

To give no warning

Of their still faithful presence,

But 'Good morning.'

To him, may be, through broken sleep

And pains abated,

These words were into senses deep

Translated:

Dear, dead salutes of wife and child,

Old kirkyard greetings;

Sun rises over hillsides wild,

Heart's beatings!

Welcoming sounds of fresh blown seas

Of homeward travel.

Tangles of thought's last memories

Unravel!

'Neath England's fretted roof of Fame,

With flowers adorning an open grave,

Comes up the same

'Good morning.'

Morning o'er that weird continent

Now slowly breaking,

Europe her sullen self-restraint

Forsaking.

Morning of sympathy and trust

For such as bore

Their master's spirit sacred crust

To England's shore.