 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
93
A FAREWELL ODE.
Comrades, I bid you weep;
Save this, there is no solace left to show:
In all fair harvests that our hands shall mow,
Henceforth the master-reaper will not reap.
Idle it is 'gainst adverse fates to strive,
And with vain effort still keep grief alive:
There is a time for tears too, as for sleep—
Let your tears flow.
Save this, there is no solace left to show:
In all fair harvests that our hands shall mow,
Henceforth the master-reaper will not reap.
Idle it is 'gainst adverse fates to strive,
And with vain effort still keep grief alive:
There is a time for tears too, as for sleep—
Let your tears flow.
94
Brothers, I bid you sing,
Because Truth fails not, though the great go by,
And those frail souls, that win to her on high,
Abide unvex'd by vain imagining.
Low at her feet the white waves howl for hate;
She is so calm and they so passionate.
Let us be glad together for this thing—
Truth cannot die.
Because Truth fails not, though the great go by,
And those frail souls, that win to her on high,
Abide unvex'd by vain imagining.
Low at her feet the white waves howl for hate;
She is so calm and they so passionate.
Let us be glad together for this thing—
Truth cannot die.
Children, I bid you pray;
So, though we look not on his like again,
Maybe his memory will our hearts sustain,
And some pure portion of his spirit stay.
This, too, he taught us; and 'tis no light gift
To souls sore-blinded by the tempest-drift—
That who on heaven's high succour wait alway,
Wait not in vain.
So, though we look not on his like again,
Maybe his memory will our hearts sustain,
And some pure portion of his spirit stay.
This, too, he taught us; and 'tis no light gift
To souls sore-blinded by the tempest-drift—
That who on heaven's high succour wait alway,
Wait not in vain.
95
Once more, I bid you peace.
How should weak song put sorrow out of sight?
There are who clamour at love, and curse the light;
Silence alone is holy till they cease.
Yea, oh! our Master, for ourselves and thee
Sweet is the silence, since joy may not be—
God of thy day's work give thee fair increase,
And a good night.
How should weak song put sorrow out of sight?
There are who clamour at love, and curse the light;
Silence alone is holy till they cease.
Yea, oh! our Master, for ourselves and thee
Sweet is the silence, since joy may not be—
God of thy day's work give thee fair increase,
And a good night.
| Poems by James Rhoades | |