Lines, On Reading, In A Manchester Newspaper, An Account Of The Death Of A Late Worthy And Highly Respected M.P. Poem by Samuel Bamford

And so the good and faithful one hath entered on his rest;
The toil of life hath passed away, and he is with the blest;
A throb, a tremor, and he yields to slumber none may break,
Until the angel's trumpet-call the morn of doom awake,—
Until the angel's trumpet-shout, that rings from heaven to hell,
And o'er the earth, and through the earth, to ocean's deepest well—
'Ye living, come to judgment, and, ye dead, return to light;
The Lord descends to judge the world in justice and in might.'
The living wait for judgment, and the dead are in array;
And God comes in a glory-flood, that pales the light of day.
Till then repose, while yet the world, with all of human race,
Goes onward rolling as before, through depths of time and space;
The human being human still, such as it long hath been,
With good and evil, noble, vile—the peasant, lord, and queen.
The good, whose greatest pleasure is to benefit mankind,
The evil, wading deep in crime, some fancied good to find;
Like tyrant, treading out the life of slaves who groaning lie,
The cravens being trod to death because they fear to die.
The good, whose constant wish is for advantage to the state;
The evil, ever seeking how for self to operate.
The good, whose rule of life is by the golden apophthegm,
Of 'doing as they would that others should do unto them.'
True nobles, not by rank alone,—mere title they ignore;
Than written sign and patent seal, they must have something more.
Of noble deed comes noble meed, and noble actions show
The honest man a king of men, and crowned of God also;
And let a passing thought disclose a truth too seldom seen,
If honest man be king of men, a honest woman's queen.
And sure' as honest queen hath sat upon the English throne,
So truly are we certified, a honest queen's our own.

Alas, the vile! that we should scorn the poor as low and vile,
Whilst vileness cushioned in a coach, we meet with bow and smile.
Ho! bring the band of golden sheen; ho! bring the jewels rare;
The vile in humble garb we loath,—the jewelled vile, 'how fair.'
A poor one begs and goes to jail,—one rich hath cheated long,
But this, though not exactly right, is scarcely deemed wrong.
And so, disguise it as we may, in either prose or rhyme,
Virtue is gold, our acts declare, and poverty is crime.

As gems are found in caverns deep, emotions pure may glow
In depths where angels come to weep mid human crime and woe;
For mouldy cell, or attic bare, where broken roof or pane
Admit the summer's sultry heat, or winter's cold and rain;
Unfurling wide their radiant wings, they leave the crystal floor,
And all unknown to sons of earth, they ope the poor man's door.
To some they fortitude impart, affliction to sustain,
Of some they bind the broken heart, of some assuage the pain,—
Awaking thoughts of Christ who was betrayed and denied,
And how, forsaken of the world, in agony he died.
Another feeling then prevails of humanizing woe;
The charm of sin hath ceased to charm, and tears repentant flow.

But thou wert of the glory-crowned, and took thy honoured place,
And held it with becoming mien, and mild, but manly grace;
Despising gaude and pride effete, to work that will not deign,
When duty called, in action prompt, thy works were quickly seen.
The useful and the requisite thou ever didst support,
With vision-led enthusiasts thou never wouldst consort.
Of manner placid, thou wert yet, persistent in the right,
And in opposing wrong thy force was neither brief nor slight.
Avoiding words not born of thought, thy speech was to the sense;
To art of 'mouthing by the hour' thou never madest pretence.

Far party's loss, or faction's gain, thou never wouldst contest,
Thy vote was always freely given, and always for the best.
Upholding power, thou wouldst maintain that right was higher still,
And, pleading justice, Mercy's tears would move thy sterner will.
Farewell, thou good and faithful one, now dwelling with the blest
'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'