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At the head of the graves of Keble and his wife in Hursley Churchyard stands a cross; inscribed upon the base are the words:—“Quibus lux esto perpetua. Pax eterna.”

One shadow only on their sleep can fall!
The long large-hearted glories of the west
That pierce the pines on Hursley's woody crest
And fire the steeple-vane, make rosy all
The cottage roofs, with splendour magical
Turn chalk to cliff of gold, and have possest
Yon glimmering weald with wonder, here may rest,
As long as bird to drowsy bird can call.

For here are lamps whose urns of faith and song
Nor grief nor death could shatter, now they shine
In worlds of peace that need not sun nor moon:
And rosy morn, red eve, or golden noon
Casts from one cross a shadow, that cross Thine,
Thou Lord of light for whom they waited long.

Charles Kingsley.

1819–75.

(OFF BIDEFORD BAY.)

By wave-bruised Baggy Point, smooth Croyda's head,
We crossed the bay of Danish Hubba's woe;
High o'er the sea-grey beach of Westward Ho
The dunes on which thy sun its magic shed,
Gleamed doubly radiant; but our eyes were led
To that white beacon-tower the sailors know,
Star of the shoals where Taw and Torridge flow,
Friend for the lost, home-bringer from the dead.

For thou in perilous times of dark didst stand
A beacon true no wanderer could reprove,
Whether he tossed on doubt's unresting sea,
Or groped his way through reason's shifting sand,
And many a soul steered straight for home by thee,
Thou pure white tower of fire and faith and love.

Dean Stanley.

July 18th, 1881

There was a silence in the city's roar,
And ere Saint Margaret's bell had ceased to boom,
With sense of universal loss, the gloom
Saddened the land, and broke from shore to shore
In tides of lamentation:—Passed! before
True christian love could fill the teacher's room
Or Time had fitted to her changing loom
The pattern of the charity he wore.

Fathered and tutored well, he never veiled
For praise or gain the vision of his eye,
Hard pressed, and dying with God's harness on.
But where keen sense and wit unblunted failed,
His all-endearing personal presence won;
Now is he free, who fought for Liberty.

Dean Stanley.

BURIED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, JULY 27TH, 1881.

Bury the Dean where each familiar grave
Opens in rival welcome for the guest
Who quickened gloriously its dust, who best
In chapel dim, dark cloister's hoary nave,
Lit the gold lamps of history, and gave
His nation's shrine a record to attest,
That there in grateful honour lies at rest
The wise in truth, in deed the nobly brave.

Bury the Dean, and let no stinted praise
Fall from the lips of men he soared above,
Unfettered, striving still to reconcile
Creeds past and present in the life of love,
Else will the Dead he championed throng the aisle,
And the Great Ghosts loud acclamation raise.

The Stanley Monument in Rugby Chapel.

Lie here in quiet, let boy-gazers know
How, even in sleep, the spirit of the man
Moved, and the blood, though all was marble, ran
To fruitful issue thro' a heart of snow;
Lie here above the world and close below
Thy master. Let ambition plot and plan,
Still shall the humble-hearted lead the van,
Their lives bequeathed to larger love shall grow.

Sleep on, thy rest no strife of tongues can break,
But on thy face young eyes shall look and learn
How they who seek pure wisdom never die,
To this white form white souls shall ever fly;
Here from cold lips of stone new truths will burn,
And where thou sleepest Charity shall wake.

Moffat the Missionary.

AUGUST 8TH, 1883.

I heard that old Arch-Missionary say:—
“Grant me no Heaven to lose, no Hell to gain,
But give me youth, I every nerve would strain
To succour poor down-trodden Africa!”
Hero and priest, albeit thy locks are grey,
Thy hand, that fear and constant need did train,
That swayed a nation, clutched the lion's mane,
And strangled serpents, is as swift to-day?

We see thee ward the arrow, frame the plow,
Plead for God's Peace where chafing warriors sit,
Thine own tongue lost in exile, hardly thou
To our dull prose their poet-words dost fit!
While from the caves, beneath that tower of brow,
Flash the twin lamps Christ's quenchless love has lit!

This sonnet was written after hearing Dr. Moffat address a great missionary gathering in the Colston Hall at Bristol, September 22nd, 1876. Those who are familiar with this heroic missionary's life will remember the incidents of his adventures with the wild beasts in Bechuanaland which are noticed in the sonnet.

Principal Shairp.

SEPTEMBER, 1885.

Let Jura wail, the loud Atlantic sweep
To Argyle's inland solitudes forlorn,
By sound and firth let sobbing seas be borne
From that dark shore where song is laid asleep.
For never gentler heart did climb the steep
Unwavering, never holier oath was sworn
Than his, who in his youth's exalted morn
To nature gave his innocence to keep.

On! lost from human presence, but unlost
To those who felt thy heart in thy right hand
And knew it beat in tune to all things good,
Sad are the vales of Wordsworth's Cumberland
And drear St. Andrews scholar-brotherhood,
But happier sure Heaven's love-enlightened host.

Bishop Fraser.

OCTOBER 22ND, 1885.

The whole church prest her hand upon her heart
With pain to hear thy heart had ceased to beat;
There fell a shock of silence on the street,
And death a moment hushed the wrangling mart;
For thou wert of thy multitudes a part,
Thy wisdom sat not only in the seat
Of lore ecclesiastic, and thy feet
Were swift to heal the nation's every smart.

Oh! generous eyes, from purer heights to see
The littleness of party—clearer now!
Oh! voice not ever lifted but to serve
The Christ of all the churches, and to nerve
Weak souls. Thy Shepherd-chief had need of thee,
And lo His crown upon thy tireless brow

Bishop Hannington.

MASSACRED WITH HIS FOLLOWERS IN MASAI LAND, CENTRAL AFRICA, OCTOBER, 1885.

When the assured and fore-determined day
Shall flood the darker continent's dark heart,
When warriors leave the spear for plow and mart,
And the white Christ assumes His gentle sway,
Then shall thy fifty followers where they lay
In blood and silence, from their ashes start
To bear thee witness, what august a part
Was thine—thou Shepherd-herald of the Way.

Those unresisting hands were fiercely bound,
Thy soul was free, thy voice was loud in prayer
Potent as Stephen's, e'er he fell asleep,
And if no Paul with hot assent was there,
Thy martyr summons went the wide world round,
The crimson seed is sown, the Church shall reap.

Principal Tulloch.

1886.

Gone to the land of light and calm in fear
For this dark day and our tempestuous time,
Already hast thou heard the silver chime,
That ever doth our jarring earth ensphere.
Nor art thou friendless, thy devout compeer
Who shared the toil of thy laborious prime
Comes from those rosy mountains angels climb:—
Friendship on earth, in Heaven is love more dear.

And if before thine ears were stopped by death
No message came of that last battle cry,
Where men fought fierce with argument for swords
Thou knowest now, from out our cloudy breath
And strife of indistinguishable words,
God rolls his car of Truth to Victory.

Sir R. Anstruther's return after a scrutiny for St. Andrews Burghs.

Principal Shairp.

Edward Thring.

HEADMASTER OF UPPINGHAM.

1853–1887.

Lord of the Lion-heart, with soul of thought,
In no vain mould of mere expedient cast,
He dared to stand against the public blast
Of opposition, for the truths he taught.
In fire from pagan page and Scripture caught
He forged the present to a helpful past;
Whate'er of life he learned, he held it fast,
And wove it into beauty as he wrought.

Preacher and poet, with the prophet eyes
To see in boys the men our time should need,
He found, for dullest clay, some grace God-given,
On quickened furrows flung his living seed,
Set Learning in her fair fit Paradise,
And showed how Love, not Knowledge led to Heaven.

Edward Thring.

OCTOBER 22ND, 1887.

Loved Father of the schoolboy multitude,
Friend of their short swift ages passed away
Guide of their labour, champion of their play,
Who dared for zeal of noble masterhood
To stand alone, a rock above the flood
Of easy acquiescence, and gainsay
The dazzling bright ambitions of to-day
That tempt to learning's heights the scholar brood,

Thy presence fails for solace or command,
Thy soul is ours, thou great schoolmaster-king;
Still, father of thy children fatherless,
Unto thy voice of cheer the pupils press,
And hearts that honour truth in every land,
Can hear thy voice for truth and honour ring.

Bishop Lightfoot.

DECEMBER 21ST, 1889.

In the Prince Bishop line, the princeliest thou
Being the humblest soul, since Leader's son
Saw angel hosts ascending, and was won
To leave his fold and take the preacher's vow.
From Farne to Camus' flood in grief we bow,
Northumbria's flock is smitten and alone,
For thou, the Shepherd, to far fields art gone.
Life claimed thee consecrate. Death sealed thy brow.

Chief lord, among thy scholars scholar still!
Thou guider of earth's flock, thyself heaven-guided,
By what calm waters, and what pastures sweet
Dost thou in glory minister, whose will
Was to make strong and whole a church divided
And bring the bruised and out-cast to Christ's feet?

Dean Oakley.

June 10th, 1890.

Here am I wrapped about with sun and showers
Among the hills that often gave you call,
Blue hills that gleamed so near to Carlisle's wall,
That seemed so far from dark Mancunium's towers;
And you are wrapped about with cloud of flowers,
Or lie beneath the purple sunless pall,
In some sad Cymric village, and tears fall,
And bells are muffled, for the Lord of mowers
Has, in His June-tide mowing, touched your field:
But God doth know that never heart did beat
For poor man's wants and woes with surer heat,
And they who follow on Christ's sheaves to bind
In fallows where you sowed, shall surely find
Life's joy hath increase, Love—a larger yield.

Dean first of Carlisle, and afterwards of Manchester.

Archbishop Thomson.

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1890.

Dead, did you say? York's good Archbishop dead!—
Brimful of human knowledge, and so wise
In that diviner world's simplicities—
Then breaks a pillar, falls a church's head,
Who dared, alone, the shepherd heights to tread,
And in a day of mist and various cries
Taught work for others was man's sacrifice,
And held that truth, unswerving, Heavenward led.

And as, when first round shepherds there was poured
The light of Christmas, while the angels sang,
They rose with joy and left their smouldering fires;
So, when our bells the Christmas message rang,
When rocked the clamorous towers, and shook the spires,
He left the crook, and went to greet his Lord.

Cardinal Newman.

1801–90.

He lies in state, whose soul was far above
The earthly dress that we men Honour call;
He rests and speaks not underneath the pall,
Whose voice was loud for duty and for love.
He walks in state, whose spirit mates above
With spirits never held by flesh in thrall;
He speaks with angels, No more Cardinal,
Servant of truths he sought on earth to prove.

And knowing all the followers of One Light,
And known by One, of all the Churches Lord,
He finds Heaven's way the way of children still,
The way of little ones, who seeing right,
Do it, and ask not of hard Reason's word,
And seek the Father by the Father's will.

Canon Liddon.

BURIED AT ST. PAUL'S, SEPTEMBER 16TH, 1890.

In olden time, the prophet of the Lord
Went up on glorious chariot-wheels of flame,
But this pure heart, returning whence it came,
Had need of no fire-horses, for his word
Clothed him with light, and his keen spirit's sword
Flashed lightning as he spoke of Christ's dear name,
And in his splendid carelessness of fame
He shone transfigured, till, the silver cord
Loosed here, he soared to Heaven. Though nevermore
Above the whispers of that mighty dome
His golden voice shall echo in the soul,
There is, within Death's sudden thunder-roll,
The whisper of a glory gone before—
A prophet-cry to call us nearer home.

Archbishop Magee.

TRANSLATED FROM PETERBORO'. DIED MAY 4TH, 1891.

He scarce had known the walls of great De Gray,
Had hardly seen, where silent Ouse doth flow,
How tutelary elms and poplars grow
About the palace garden—when the day
Predestined came to call his soul away,
And underneath that triple-caverned row
Of pillared portals, solemnly and slow
We bore his bones to mingle with the clay
Of Aelfric, and of Kinsius: but his voice,
His wholesome wit, his reasonable mind,
These were not coffined with him, these remain:
And Yorkshire's Viking, Peterboro's Dane,
Still feel the gift which came upon the wind
That sealed with tongues of flame the Spirit's choice.

The Archbishop had hardly bid good-bye to Peterborough and entered upon residence at Bishopsthorpe when he died. His body was taken back to Peterborough for interment, within whose cathedral lie the bones of two former Archbishops of York, Aelfric and Kinsius.

Bishop Goodwin.

NOVEMBER 25TH, 1892.

Here in the land of shepherds let him rest—
Chief shepherd he of Cumbria's ancient wild—
And lay his bones beside his well-loved child,
And strew the snow-white flowers upon his breast;
For he with childhood's joyousness was blest,
With manhood's calm; to any weakling mild,
Fierce only to the wolves; and unbeguiled
By soft vale voices sought the mountain crest,
And on the peaks of duty, not of fame,
Wrought out his shepherd's calling. Now he lies
In sight of Skiddaw, and the hearts that burn—
Remembering all the deeds of Kentigern—
Know, since, till this man taught us, none more wise
To lift the cross, beside the Derwent came.

At Bishop Goodwin's Grave.

THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL. NOVEMBER 29TH, 1892.

Here rests from earthly labour, not from love,
A strenuous heart, strong hand and tireless brain,
One who thro' death's dark gate unhurt of pain
And quite unquenched of spirit, went to prove
The glory of full being: oh, remove
This weary weight of death that doth restrain
The ardour of his going! grant again
Sight of the Shepherd passed to fields above!

Nay, since, dear God and Father of us all,
Thou at Thy time dost give Thy loved ones sleep,
We would not ask our Shepherd from the height,
Nor claim him back to darkness from the light;
Only we pray Thee, with a clearer call
Call close around the cross Thy sorrowing sheep.

Cardinal Manning.

ON HEARING OF HIS LAST ILLNESS, JANUARY, 1892.

May God's sweet sun of health shine out and move
The bitter cloud that darkens on our hopes,
For you thro' strength and weakness up the slopes
Of Faith have passed unfaltering: Heaven above
Smiles on you; not for ring or jewelled glove,
Wrappings of scarlet, gorgeous golden copes,
Not for the kissing of the hand of popes,
But for your kiss of peace, your cloak of love.

Frail were your hands and frail your voice's call—
Both strong for right; Faith helped your high endeavour
When wealth and work stood angrily at strife.
Ah! though your feet are near that other river,
Stay with us still, for England needs your life,
Friend of the poor! wise-counselling Cardinal!

At the Lying in State of Cardinal Manning.

JANUARY 19TH, 1892.

He lies in purple, as becomes a man
Of royal nature, round him starry bright
Stand the dark walls in token of our night.
Those aged feet that still so swiftly ran
To succour, those grey eyes that seemed to scan
The worlds unseen, have lost their power and light,
And the frail hands, and strenuous for the right,
Are cold. Mourns England, grieves the Vatican!

Yet death has set his forehead free from lines,
The golden crook is idle at his side,
He lies at rest and on his purple glove
Like flame unwaveringly the topaz shines,
While o'er him dead there bends the One who died,
With arms outstretched—the image of his love.

Spurgeon.

FEBRUARY 4TH, 1892.

Neither for rugged wit nor Saxon phrase,
Oh mourners by the soft Italian sea—
Blue as the sapphire lake of Galilee
Whereby in thought he laboured all his days—
This prophet last of Puritans—we praise,
But rather that he never bowed the knee
To false expedient, ever flung out free
The banner of a gospel he upraised.

Not on the hills with peace his feet were shod,
No desert silence by his voice surprised
Heard the clear note “Repent ye of your sin”;
But in the midst of mammon's busiest din
He dared, each day rededicate to God,
To cry aloud “Believe and be baptised.”

Bishop Phillips Brooks.

DIED AT BOSTON, 23RD JANUARY, 1893.

You came, and with you came a wind from Heaven
The health and vigour of Atlantic gales,
Our hearts revived, our souls reset their sails,
And with new courage o'er dark seas were driven.
Weak knees were strong which hopelessly had striven,
Tired hands that felt—what agony avails!
Cast overboard all this world's cumbrous bales,
Took in fresh hope and life your lips had given.

There as we heard the passionate appeal,
And watched your body swayed beneath the stress
Of half you felt, of all you could express,
We learned again how sped the Holy Ghost
Thro' flame and wind of that first Pentecost,
And knew your message by the Saviour's seal.