Lines

Relating to the effect in the City of London of the news of President McKinley’s
death on September 14, 1901.

ALONG the city’s highway, midst the rush and din
Of busy money-seeking men filled with a grimy cloud
Of life, what misty and ominous figure comes,
Sending a thrill of terror through the sordid crowd?

Her name is muttered with cowardly bated breath,
As by skulking men discovered in natural pose,
Men full of shame for their lives and fearing to die,
Skulking men who crouch and hide as her way she goes.

Yet, for the noble strenuous man, death has no sting.
He has no need of warning, call whene’er she will,
His room is ever ready and his table set;
His soul erect with courage, and his conscience still.

We fear too much our dim, mysterious mother,
Whose function is not to destroy, but to fulfil [sic].
No force can kill a Man; death merely liberates
A man from those rough husks which help to hide his soul;
No death can render noble life corruptible.