From Burgoyne-Murchison-Babbage, Punch Nov. 4 1871. By Tom Taylor
Not so his brother sage. Under the dark
Of Destiny CHARLES BABBAGE seemed to stand
True Servant still to Science, yet a mark
For fewer boons than buffets at her hand
In no scant measure these were dealt to him
From far-off days, when he was first to range
Lone analytic heights, through pathways dim
By lettered sign and symbol quaint and strange.
If he was given grudged means and room confined
To prosecute his task of making wheel
And crank and lever ply the toll of mind
Until dead iron seemed to think and feel,
'Twas much in minds as impotent to gauge
As do, his work, which to them seemed a toy
Wondrous but worthless, till his heart in rage
The sage was fain to eat. and fierce annoy.
And those who could not measure what he knew
Nor understand his aims, could blame his mood:
Till back into himself the master drew
And was content to pass for rough and rude,
And vain and querulous, and lived a life
Scarce noted by the crowd, or now and then
Recalled to them by some sharp stir of strife
That shot its hot bolt and was gone again.
But let not those who helped to blow the chaff
About his wrath at the distracting grind
Of blatant organs, pride them on the laugh
Called forth by trouble of a labouring mind.
Still brave, if sore, the strong brain warred for truth,
Sworn soldier of stern Science, to her hest
Submissive, though the great dreams of his youth
Were laid up, unachieved, in brain and breast.
Doubt not he also has his late reward
And tastes it now in that calm sphere above
Where Statesman, Sage, Philosopher, and Bard
Drink freely at the fount of Truth and Love.
I ran across this memorial poem from 1871 on the death of Charles Babbage. It is the third part of a poem also memorializing John Fox Burgoyne, who was a soldier, and Roderick Murchison, the geologist -- this is why the quotation above begins the way it does, in medias res.