 | Poems by a Painter |  |
100
THE TOMB IN THE CHANCEL.
TO W. H. P.
I
Up from the willowy Wharfe the white haze crept,The yellow leaves were falling one by one,
When through the Priory nave we softly stept
To where—his clangorous life-moil long since done—
Sir Everard Raby in his hauberk slept,
In the still chancel corner, all alone.
Ah! time had used him roughly! Helm and shield
All banged and battered, as in mortal field;
The knightly baldric brast, the brave sword gone
That won his spurs at dusty Ascalon!
But broken harness or dishonoured crest,
Boots not to him so meekly slumbering there,
101
And stony finger locked in everlasting prayer.
II
The autumn sunlight touched his carven mailWith ghostly radiance—cyclas, belt, and lace;
Scattered wan splendours all about the place,
And with fantastic necromancy played
Amongst the dust our quiet moving made;
While o'er his suppliant hands and heavenward face
It hung a mournful glory, soft and pale,
As if, through mist of half-remembered tears,
It shone from far, the light of buried years!—
We leaned in silence on the oaken rail,
And, 'mid the hush, this thought swelled like a psalm
In my heart's sanctuary: O that we, too, might bear
Our cross through life's stern conflict, as to wear
In death, like him, the crown of everlasting calm.
| Poems by a Painter | |