For Freedom he had stood, in her defence His best had given; where'er the fight was keen, Ever amid the foremost had he been Down-bearing tyranny's battalions dense. For that he left his ease and hopes of fame; Endured the heat and burden of the day; And while his lyre mute and forgotten lay, Laboured to clear from wrong his country's name. And now, that task fulfilled, his voice once more Breaks forth into a fuller, richer song, "Not changed to hoarse or mute," sublime and strong, The noblest heard among the sons of men. A strain full worthy of his subject high-- Sin, Death, and Hell, and our eternal woe; The gloomy majesty of Heaven's great foe, Hurling defiance to the vaulted sky; The work of Christ, Immortal Son of God, The warring hosts of fiends to darkness hurl'd, Creation and the birth of this round world, And man brought low beneath th' Almighty rod. His throne is set where the immortals are, Where Dante, crowned with laurel, smiles serene, And Virgil wears his garland ever green, And Homer shines undimmed, a fadeless star. TO THE MEMORY OF DR. BIGGS AN UNDERGRADUATE POEM An old Portora boy's tribute to the late Dr. Biggs (accidentally drowned in Lough Erne, July 1904) Calm was the evening; and the lake as calm Showed not a ripple on its placid breast; Peaceful was Nature, when the one we loved Passed quietly to his rest. Not racked by pain, nor marred by fell disease, He bowed beneath the Almighty's chastening rod--- With heart at ease, and praise upon his lips, He went to meet his God. The tears and anguish of the bed of death A loving Father spared his closing eye-- The gentle murmuring waters sang his dirge; The soft winds breathed a sigh. Not far were ready hands and loving hearts-- His voice they heard not, nor his peril knew; Alone God met him; and that solemn scene Was veiled from human view. O raise him gently from the wat'ry depths; And gaze with reverence on that noble head Stamped with the beauty of a lofty soul, A spirit that is fled. All lines of grief, all trace of human care Death's kindly hand has smoothed from his brow; And perfect peace alone and holy calm Are seen there now. Weep ye no more, sad mourners; let us cease To wail the sudden stroke with idle breath; Pure was his life; his soul seven times refined And ripe for death. With eyes that strove to pierce the veil of time And view the Unseen, he ran his mortal race; The veil is passed; with clearer vision now He sees Him face to face. Perhaps some coming grief, some sorrow dread Or wasting sickness, fraught with heavy woe, The All-seeing saw, and stretched His saving arm To snatch him from the blow. Weep not for him, but for ourselves bereft Of a strong champion in this earthly strife; A rock to which his weaker brethren clung Amid the storms of life.