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THE TOMAHAWK. A SATURDAY JOURNAL OF SATI...
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No. 134.] LONDON, NOVEMBER 27, 1869. [Pr...
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GEORGE PEABODY. BORN FEBRUARY, 1798. DIED NOVEMBER,, 1869. +
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Home to the happy land which gave him bi...
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
Additionally, when viewing full transcripts, extracted text may not be in the same order as the original document.
The Tomahawk. A Saturday Journal Of Sati...
THE TOMAHAWK . A SATURDAY JOURNAL OF SATIRE . CMtefc tip & ¦ ¦¦ xtt ) ux h & eckett + 0 " INVITAT CULPAM QUI PECCATUM PRETERIT . "
No. 134.] London, November 27, 1869. [Pr...
No . 134 . ] LONDON , NOVEMBER 27 , 1869 . [ Price Twopence .
George Peabody. Born February, 1798. Died November,, 1869. +
GEORGE PEABODY . BORN FEBRUARY , 1798 . DIED NOVEMBER ,, 1869 . +
Home To The Happy Land Which Gave Him Bi...
Home to the happy land which gave him birth Bear ye the man whose only fame is this—That he had means to do great good , and did it . Great men , no few , who with the pen , or tongue , Or sword , wrought wonders , rest beneath these aisles : He stays not long among them—for his body His native village claims—his memory Is ours ; it lives enshrined in all our hearts , And He left in to our all children —to love ' s , for and this honour legac him y . But who among the greatest men , whose lives The marble chronicles , will sneer at him ? He was not eloquent , nor skilled in war ; He was no poet , yet his works will live Although unwritten ; often be rehearsed By loving lips which he had taught to smile . None of the dead within , the Abbey walls Bear an escutcheon blotted more by tears—Tears shed by friends who never saw their friend , Tears full of love and hope , not bitterness Nor drear despair , such as have oft been shed For those whose giant intellects were soiled By passion ' s stains—those weep for him who felt His helping hand ; the hand is numb and cold , But not the help ; his wealth lives after him—Wealth got by honesty and spent in love Not of himself , but others ;—blessed gold , Whose brightness never in his noble hands Grew dim , but shone more splendid and more pure . The hand that stiffened in the clasp of Death , True to its nature still was strong to give , Freely and wisely . May like wisdom guide Those who received the charge ! For never , surely , will his spirit rest i If with a profligate or niggard hand They waste or save this noble legacy—The poor are heirs , that seldom in this world Enjoy their heritage j for greed of gain , Or love of splendour , swallow up the dole Which to the poor were plenty .
Well may we weep to think that he has gone Who Never , drinking forgot the deep poor of . Fortune For him ' s magic no luxury cup , j Could palsy thought—nor needed he to feel Privation , ere he learnt to pity want . Yes , we must weep for him , he leaves but few With Discip tardy les , and step they s , while halt misery behind ' s their pallid lord host Grows vaster day by day . Many there are who , lolling at their ease , : With silken curtains hide the light of day ; i Soft fall the dim voluptuous beams on them , And soothe them into slumber , —but without What is it that they fear ? They fear to look On grim starvation , grisly-faced disease , On On vice brutal ' s spawn ignorance that with from beetling such parents brows springs , , — ; These are their own creations , and they fear j To look on them . Blind fools ! They may shut out the searching light , They cannot quench it—and the time will come When all the monsters which that light reveals Shall ask , with horrid cry— " Who made us ? " " God ! " They try to answer , but the coward lie Sticks in their throat j for with ten thousand tongues , Filled with the echoes of the Judgment trump , Conscience , awakened from her lethargy , Exclaims , * not God , but man , irreverend wretch , Nurtured these monsters with his selfish lusts . ' The Oh happy message we , which if not his too spirit late to from hear above By angels—long its faithful ministers—Tarries awhile to speak : " If aught my life " Can teach to others , may it teach them this , — " Nor wealth , nor happiness , nor fame , can make "Us aught but poor and wretched and obscure , " While other men are so . Their griefs are ours j " The less we feel them now , the heavier far " They lie on us hereafter . This is heaven" To have the power of doing all the good " We yearn to do on earth . "
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Citation
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Tomahawk (1867-1870), Nov. 27, 1869, page unpag, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/t/issues/ttw_27111869/page/1/
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