On the Death of John Hay

Why droops the flag so sadly from the mast?
Is it because the mariner is past?
Why rolls the drum so dully in the field?
Is it because a state bereft must yield
One of its greatest to the great unknown?

And yet it is not that we make our moan for him,
Ah no, strong faced he sees the throne
But pities us who weep for him here alone.
He was the master of a mighty day,
Made as all humans but of finer clay.

Let fly the flags, let beat the drums,
The day of glory to our hero comes.
Dry up the tears, the wound that sears,
But blossoms in the teeming years.

Great is the man of great intent,
The greater he whose life is spent
In the wise conduct of the state
Whose note of empire comes not late
But lags on the heels of fate.

To weep for him were coward shame,
He has his glory and his fame.
He waves the world farewell, farewell,
A master mind and spirit without blame.