Sonnet Xlviii. Gladstone. Poem by Christopher Pearse Cranch

FOR Peace, and all that follows in her path —
Nor slighting honor and his country's fame,
He stood unmoved, and dared to face the blame
Of party-spirit and its turbid wrath.
He saw in vision the dread aftermath,
Should war once kindle its world-circling flame
Through Asian tribes that bear the British name.
Time few such crises for a people hath,
And few such leaders. Calmly he pursued
A course at which the feebler spirits sneered,
The bolder fumed with clamor loud and rude.
And while the world still doubted, hoped, and feared,
This chief a bloodless victory hath won —
Britannia's wisest, best, and bravest son.