The Finding of The Book and Other Poems By William Alexander |
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 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
V
And must we say—if all the truth be told—
‘His life was but a failure, a wrong guess’?
Hush! be not overbold.
Who dares to talk about success
In presence of that solemn blessedness?
Who, but God, dares to give a martyr gold?
Hush! Oh leave him in the darkness of the land,
Cover'd with the shadow of Christ's hand;
Leave him in the midnight Arctic sun,
God's great light o'er duty nobly done,
God's great whiteness for the pardon won;
Leave him waiting for the setting of the Throne,
Leave him waiting for the trumpet to be blown,
In God's bosom, in a land unknown.
Leave him (he needeth no lament)
With suns, and nights, and snow;
Life's tragedy is more magnificent,
Ending with that sublime and silent woe.
'Tis well it should be so.
‘His life was but a failure, a wrong guess’?
Hush! be not overbold.
Who dares to talk about success
In presence of that solemn blessedness?
Who, but God, dares to give a martyr gold?
Hush! Oh leave him in the darkness of the land,
133
Leave him in the midnight Arctic sun,
God's great light o'er duty nobly done,
God's great whiteness for the pardon won;
Leave him waiting for the setting of the Throne,
Leave him waiting for the trumpet to be blown,
In God's bosom, in a land unknown.
Leave him (he needeth no lament)
With suns, and nights, and snow;
Life's tragedy is more magnificent,
Ending with that sublime and silent woe.
'Tis well it should be so.
Brave hearts! ye cannot stay;
Only at home ye will be sure to say
How he has wrought and sought, and found—found what?
The bourne whence traveller returneth not!
Ah no! 'tis only that his spirit high
Hath gone upon a new discovery,
A marvellous passage on a sea unbounded,
Blown by God's gentle breath;
But that the white sail of his soul has rounded
The promontory—Death!
Only at home ye will be sure to say
How he has wrought and sought, and found—found what?
The bourne whence traveller returneth not!
Ah no! 'tis only that his spirit high
Hath gone upon a new discovery,
A marvellous passage on a sea unbounded,
Blown by God's gentle breath;
But that the white sail of his soul has rounded
The promontory—Death!
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |