Richard Realf

Here was born in 1834 the remarkable man Richard Realf, forgotten today, but in his own day known in two continents.

The son of Sussex parents, he was writing poems at 15 and publishing them at 18 under the title of Guesses at the Beautiful. Emigrating to America, he did missionary work in the slums of New York, and organised cheap lectures.

When the controversy over slavery broke out he started a newspaper, and met John Brown, who proposed to make him Secretary of-State in his Government! After Brown was captured at Harper's Ferry Realf was arrested, but was released, and joined the Federal Army, cheering many a camp fire with the war songs he wrote.

When he left the Army he became a journalist once more and established a school for freed slaves. Domestic troubles bowed him down in later years, and this Sussex native who had sung an army to victory died tragically by his own hand in 1878 at Oakland in California.

 

He left for posterity this picture of himself as he saw himself;

 

 

Say naught but good of the dead,

and when For me this end has come and I am dead,

And the little voluble, chattering daws of men Peck at me curiously,

let it then be said By some one brave enough to speak the truth:

Here lies a great soul killed by cruel wrong,

Down all the balmy days of his fresh youth To his bleak,

desolate noon with sword and song,

And speech that rushed up hotly from the heart,

He wrought, for liberty, till his own wound (He had been stabbed),

concealed with painful art Through wasting years, mastered him, and he swooned,

And sank there where you see him lying now With the word Failure written on his brow.

 

But say that he succeeded.

If he missed World's honours and world's plaudits,

and the wage Of the world's deft lacqueys,

still his lips were kissed Daily by those high angels who assuage

The thirstings of the poets (for he was Born unto singing) and a burthen lay Mightily on him,

and he moaned because He could not rightly utter to the day What God taught in the night.

 

Sometimes, nathless, Power fell upon him, and bright tongues of flame,

And blessings reached him from poor souls in stress;

And benedictions from black pits of shame, And little children's love,

and old men's prayers, And a Great Hand that led him unawares.

So he died rich. And if his eyes were blurred With big films - silence!

 

he is in his grave. Greatly he suffered; greatly, too, he erred;

Yet broke his heart in trying to be brave.

Nor did he wait till Freedom had become The popular shibboleth of courtier's lips;

He smote for her when God himself seemed dumb And all His arching skies were in eclipse.

He was a-weary, but he fought his fight, And stood for simple manhood;

and was joyed To see the august broadening of the light,

And new Earths heaving heavenward from the void.

He loved his fellows, and their love was sweet;

Plant daisies at his head and at his feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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