 | St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems |  |
R. C. TRENCH, ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.
“Laureatus spiritu scriptis coronatur suis.”
Thou whom we miss and mourn,
Though not yet graveward borne,
Who by this act of faith
Hast antedated death,—
Thee our love speaks about,
As if thy presence out
Had stately to the vast
Darkness and silence pass'd;
As if all light that lies
Deep in those thoughtful eyes,
Splendour and shadowy grace
Of that pathetic face,
All the strange music known
Unto thy voice alone,
Of prayer and sorrow born,
Mix'd with majestic scorn
Of baseness and of ill,—
As if all these were still;
As if the light and sound
Were changed for the profound
Quiet and darken'd spot
Where all things are forgot.
Thou, in all working such
As thy true hand did touch,
Thou, with an aim sublime,
Master, didst write for time.
Thou scornedst to imprint
One evanescent tint
Upon the measured page
Thou mad'st so grave and sage.
Wherefore the years shall look
With thanks upon thy book.
Though not yet graveward borne,
Who by this act of faith
Hast antedated death,—
Thee our love speaks about,
As if thy presence out
Had stately to the vast
Darkness and silence pass'd;
As if all light that lies
Deep in those thoughtful eyes,
Splendour and shadowy grace
Of that pathetic face,
All the strange music known
Unto thy voice alone,
Of prayer and sorrow born,
Mix'd with majestic scorn
Of baseness and of ill,—
As if all these were still;
164
Were changed for the profound
Quiet and darken'd spot
Where all things are forgot.
Thou, in all working such
As thy true hand did touch,
Thou, with an aim sublime,
Master, didst write for time.
Thou scornedst to imprint
One evanescent tint
Upon the measured page
Thou mad'st so grave and sage.
Wherefore the years shall look
With thanks upon thy book.
Thou, when an angry spell
On clamorous hundreds fell;
Or sometimes when men press'd
Thorns to that patient breast,
Or their suspicion laid
Upon that stately head,
Slowly didst turn away
Heart-wounded from the fray,
And unto God alone
Madest majestic moan.
On clamorous hundreds fell;
Or sometimes when men press'd
Thorns to that patient breast,
Or their suspicion laid
Upon that stately head,
Slowly didst turn away
Heart-wounded from the fray,
And unto God alone
Madest majestic moan.
God! by whose will created
The time and man are mated,
Give us such chiefs again,
Give us such kings of men
Who shout no narrow creed,
And do no little deed,
But to their work impart
A grace-touch'd human heart.
The time and man are mated,
Give us such chiefs again,
Give us such kings of men
Who shout no narrow creed,
And do no little deed,
But to their work impart
A grace-touch'd human heart.
| St. Augustine's Holiday and Other Poems | |