Joseph Friedlander, comp. The Standard Book of Jewish Verse. 1917.
By PunchBenjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield
D
The Coronet, the Garter, slip aside,
The Peer’s emblazonment, the victor’s bays,
The pageantry of pride.
Who weighs, who marks them now when all is said
In simple words, low-breathed in heaviness?—
Disraeli’s dead!
Of meteoric and all-daring youth,
And through the season of his dazzling prime;
And so to-day, in sooth,
Nor he the less unfeignedly whose lance
Against that shield and crest full oft had borne
In combat à outrance.
Swordless and silent! ’Tis a thought to dim
The young Spring sunshine, glancing, as was fit,
Bright at the last on him.
Holding the Greek gift yet in mind and tongue,
And who, though faring past life’s common goal,
Loved of the gods died young.
By custom as unchilled by creeping years,
A world-compeller, who not often failed
In fight with his few peers.
To that proud height whereat youth’s fancy aimed
Whom even those who doubted whilst they praised,
Admired, e’en whilst they blamed.
That buoyant wisdom or that biting wit!
To see him and his one sole battle-peer
Sharp counter hit for hit.
That unbetraying eye, that fadeless curl,
No more in plot or policy to trace
The hand of the great Earl!
Not least amidst our greatest! Who would dare
Deny thee place and splendour with the best
Who breathed our English air?
With Honour none may challenge, crown thee now
Wherever laid, nor Faction’s self would shake
The laurel from thy brow.
Garlands the sword no more to leave its sheath,
And, turning from thy simple gravestone, leaves
A tear upon the wreath.