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Elizabeth Atlee.
WIFE OF THE VICAR OF BUTTERMERE, WHO, WHILE ENGAGED IN MISSION WORK, DIED ON MOUNT OLIVET.
FEBRUARY 7TH, 1892.
Thou did'st not close thine eyes where to the lake
Float forth the cavern-water's echoing tones,
Nor where, snow-white upon the mountain wall,
The great ghyll leaps toward the darkened mere.
No, rather, where scarce audible at all,
The withered Cedron through its yellow stones
Downward its way doth take,
Barren and drear
Among the dead and their ten thousand bones,
Too parched and dry to wake.
Float forth the cavern-water's echoing tones,
Nor where, snow-white upon the mountain wall,
The great ghyll leaps toward the darkened mere.
No, rather, where scarce audible at all,
The withered Cedron through its yellow stones
Downward its way doth take,
Barren and drear
Among the dead and their ten thousand bones,
Too parched and dry to wake.
Death took thee by the hand,
Not in our mountain land
Where the long sunsets burn
Upon the russet fern,
And o'er the vale
The drifts of mountain snow
Fall soft and go;
And down the silent dale
Moves very slow,
With February pale,
The gentle spring,
Bidding the thrush to sing,
Bidding the ravens pair,
And clamour high in air,
Making the shy mole heave
His mountains miniature,
And from her sure retreat
And solitary seat
Commanding love to lure
Our glorious buzzard-king;
The spring that comes to greet
The shepherd on the rock
With dreams of a new flock;
The joyful spring,
With snowdrops at her feet,
And daisies soon to weave
Into a chain and ball;
The spring that o'er the hills
Will hear the cuckoo call
And by the sounding rills
Keep festival;
The spring that so makes glad
Each cottage lass and lad
With hope of daffodils.
Not in our mountain land
Where the long sunsets burn
Upon the russet fern,
146
The drifts of mountain snow
Fall soft and go;
And down the silent dale
Moves very slow,
With February pale,
The gentle spring,
Bidding the thrush to sing,
Bidding the ravens pair,
And clamour high in air,
Making the shy mole heave
His mountains miniature,
And from her sure retreat
And solitary seat
Commanding love to lure
Our glorious buzzard-king;
The spring that comes to greet
The shepherd on the rock
With dreams of a new flock;
The joyful spring,
147
And daisies soon to weave
Into a chain and ball;
The spring that o'er the hills
Will hear the cuckoo call
And by the sounding rills
Keep festival;
The spring that so makes glad
Each cottage lass and lad
With hope of daffodils.
But thou, thy hand was set
To touch the Master's hem,
To serve thy Lord and Friend
Who some time did ascend
From songless Olivet,
That holy mountain strange
That knows not any change,
Where still the white roads run
From shadow into sun,
As in those far off years
When Jesus Christ shed tears
Over Jerusalem.
There where the winter gale
Doth only make more pale
The olive gardens; there where scarce at all
Come varied seasons, save when now and then
Beyond the city wall,
Ripe figs or berries fall.
To touch the Master's hem,
To serve thy Lord and Friend
Who some time did ascend
From songless Olivet,
That holy mountain strange
That knows not any change,
Where still the white roads run
From shadow into sun,
148
When Jesus Christ shed tears
Over Jerusalem.
There where the winter gale
Doth only make more pale
The olive gardens; there where scarce at all
Come varied seasons, save when now and then
Beyond the city wall,
Ripe figs or berries fall.
And thou wert ripe,
And thou hast heard the word that is the best—
“Come unto me, ye weary, and have rest.”
Therefore we wipe
Away our tears and say Amen,
For thou did'st go to greet
Thy Lord, and kiss His feet
There where He did ascend;
And thou hast done His word,
And thou art with thy Lord,
Thy Saviour and thy Friend.
And thou hast heard the word that is the best—
“Come unto me, ye weary, and have rest.”
Therefore we wipe
Away our tears and say Amen,
For thou did'st go to greet
Thy Lord, and kiss His feet
There where He did ascend;
And thou hast done His word,
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Thy Saviour and thy Friend.
But by sad lake and shore
In this thy dwelling place,
We shall behold thy face
And know thy gentle grace
Not ever more.
In this thy dwelling place,
We shall behold thy face
And know thy gentle grace
Not ever more.
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