Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander Edited, with a preface, by William Alexander |
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| 9 | | III. |
 | IV. | IV
MEMORIAL VERSES |
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| VII. |
 | Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander |  |
346
IV
MEMORIAL VERSES
THE GRAVE AT SPITZBERGEN.
Above, the vast eternal snows,
The glaciers' rosy peaks,
Touch'd with pale tints of blue and rose
When the short sunbeam breaks.
The glaciers' rosy peaks,
Touch'd with pale tints of blue and rose
When the short sunbeam breaks.
Below, the land-lock'd quiet bay,
The black rocks stretching far,
And the great ice-floes out at sea
That beat against the bar.
The black rocks stretching far,
And the great ice-floes out at sea
That beat against the bar.
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No sound along the wide snow plains,
No echo in the deep,
But Nature evermore remains
Wrapp'd in a breathless sleep.
No echo in the deep,
But Nature evermore remains
Wrapp'd in a breathless sleep.
No blade of grass waves in the air
Along the ghastly hill—
Caught by the marvellous silence there
The very streams stand still.
Along the ghastly hill—
Caught by the marvellous silence there
The very streams stand still.
Never to fall, each frozen river
Hangs on the sheer descent,
Like wishes unfulfill'd for ever,
Or words that find no vent.
Hangs on the sheer descent,
Like wishes unfulfill'd for ever,
Or words that find no vent.
Only at times, from some ice rock,
A glacier breaks away,
And startles, with a thunder-shock,
The mountain and the bay.
A glacier breaks away,
And startles, with a thunder-shock,
The mountain and the bay.
O frozen cliffs! O motionless snows!
We glide into the creek,
And question of your grim repose,
The lips that will not speak.
We glide into the creek,
And question of your grim repose,
The lips that will not speak.
In your cold beauty, vast and drear,
Ye lie so still and grand;
But no heart-stirrings meet us here—
Unsympathizing strand!
Ye lie so still and grand;
But no heart-stirrings meet us here—
Unsympathizing strand!
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No sound in all this sparkling waste,
No voice in Heaven above,—
To some strange region have we pass'd,
Beyond the reach of love?
No voice in Heaven above,—
To some strange region have we pass'd,
Beyond the reach of love?
Ah, no! some link there needs must be
Where Christian foot has trod,
Of the great chain of sympathy
'Twixt man and man, and God.
Where Christian foot has trod,
Of the great chain of sympathy
'Twixt man and man, and God.
And, lo! there lie a dead man's bones,
Uncover'd, where we tread,
An open coffin 'mid the stones,
A rude cross at his head.
Uncover'd, where we tread,
An open coffin 'mid the stones,
A rude cross at his head.
The wild white cliffs—the vast still main—
The patch of scant black moss;
But still the form to rise again,
And still the letter'd cross.
The patch of scant black moss;
But still the form to rise again,
And still the letter'd cross.
And he whom tender Christian hands
Laid on this barbarous coast,
Who knoweth from what happier lands,
Or by what fortune tost?
Laid on this barbarous coast,
Who knoweth from what happier lands,
Or by what fortune tost?
Whether 'mid Amsterdam's brown piles
His stone-prest grave should be,
Where washes round her many isles
The azure Zuyder Zee;
His stone-prest grave should be,
Where washes round her many isles
The azure Zuyder Zee;
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Or by some vast cathedral wall
His fathers laid them down,
Where chimes are rung and shadows fall,
In an old Flemish town;
His fathers laid them down,
Where chimes are rung and shadows fall,
In an old Flemish town;
Or whether, 'neath some village turt,
Where children come to weep,
And lighter treads the unletter'd serf,
He should have gone to sleep,
Where children come to weep,
And lighter treads the unletter'd serf,
He should have gone to sleep,
To drone of bees and summer gnats,
In some great linden-tree,
Where the old Rhine, through fertile flats,
Goes sobbing to the sea.
In some great linden-tree,
Where the old Rhine, through fertile flats,
Goes sobbing to the sea.
What matters—though these frozen stones
Their burden could not bear,
But gave again his coffin'd bones
Into the freezing air;
Their burden could not bear,
But gave again his coffin'd bones
Into the freezing air;
Though here, to snows and storms exposed,
They bleach'd a hundred years,
Never by human hand composed,
Nor wet with human tears;
They bleach'd a hundred years,
Never by human hand composed,
Nor wet with human tears;
Though only the shy rein-deer made
In the black moss a trace,
Or the white bears came out and play'd
In sunshine by the place;
In the black moss a trace,
Or the white bears came out and play'd
In sunshine by the place;
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Still, silent, from the blacken'd heath,
Rose that eternal sign,
Memorial of a human death,
And of a love divine.
Rose that eternal sign,
Memorial of a human death,
And of a love divine.
Still, type of triumph and of woe,
Symbol of hope and shame,
It told the everlasting snow
That single Christian name.
Symbol of hope and shame,
It told the everlasting snow
That single Christian name.
Sleep on, poor wanderer of the main,
Who camest here to die,
No mother's hand to soothe thy pain,
No wife to close thine eye.
Who camest here to die,
No mother's hand to soothe thy pain,
No wife to close thine eye.
Sleep well in thy vast sepulchre,
Far from our cares and fears,
The great white hills that never stir
Have watch'd thee round for years.
Far from our cares and fears,
The great white hills that never stir
Have watch'd thee round for years.
The skies have lit thee with their sheen,
Or wrapp'd in leaden gloom;
The glaciers' splinter'd peaks have been
The pillars of thy tomb.
Or wrapp'd in leaden gloom;
The glaciers' splinter'd peaks have been
The pillars of thy tomb.
Green be their graves who came of old
From Holland o'cr the main,
And left the simple cross that told
Where Christian dust has lain.
From Holland o'cr the main,
And left the simple cross that told
Where Christian dust has lain.
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Green be their graves beyond the sea,
Who witness'd in this place
The resurrection mystery,
And our dear Saviour's grace;
Who witness'd in this place
The resurrection mystery,
And our dear Saviour's grace;
Who taught us, at this solemn tryst
On the bleak North sea shore,
That the redeeming love of Christ
Is with us evermore.
On the bleak North sea shore,
That the redeeming love of Christ
Is with us evermore.
“Half imbedded in the black moss at his feet, there lay a grey deal coffin, falling to pieces with age; the lid was gone, blown off probably by the wind, and within were stretched the bleaching bones of a human skeleton. A rude cross at the head of the grave still stood partially upright, and a half-obliterated Dutch inscription preserved a record of the dead man's name and age, Van der Shelling, Comman. Jacob Moor, ob. 2 June, 1758, æt. 44.”—Letters from High Latitudes.
THE GRAVE OF MRS. HEMANS.
This her grave! Ah me! she should be sleeping
In some grass-green churchyard far away,
Where in Spring the violets are peeping,
And the birds sing through the Summer's day.
In some grass-green churchyard far away,
Where in Spring the violets are peeping,
And the birds sing through the Summer's day.
Silver rays, through bowers of ivy crawling,
At calm noon, should lie along her feet;
Folding flowers, and solemn shadows falling
At soft eve, should make her slumbers sweet.
At calm noon, should lie along her feet;
Folding flowers, and solemn shadows falling
At soft eve, should make her slumbers sweet.
And the wind in the tall trees should lend her
Musical delight on stormy days,
With a sound half chivalrous, half tender,
Like the echo of her own wild lays.
Musical delight on stormy days,
With a sound half chivalrous, half tender,
Like the echo of her own wild lays.
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Was it meet to leave her in the city
Where no sun could fall upon her face?
Lift the cold, grey stone, in love and pity
Bear her out unto a fairer place.
Where no sun could fall upon her face?
Lift the cold, grey stone, in love and pity
Bear her out unto a fairer place.
Ah, no more—within the poet's bosom
There are gleams that mock external gloom,
Flowers expanding, like the captive's blossom,
'Twixt the flagstones of his prison room!
There are gleams that mock external gloom,
Flowers expanding, like the captive's blossom,
'Twixt the flagstones of his prison room!
For this wealth of beauty all around him,
Buds that haunt him with their azure eyes,
Seas whose blue horizons scarcely bound him,
Cloud-capp'd hills that rush into the skies,—
Buds that haunt him with their azure eyes,
Seas whose blue horizons scarcely bound him,
Cloud-capp'd hills that rush into the skies,—
Sunset gleams that rose-tipp'd clouds make duller,
Murmuring streams that into distance lead;
They but give his fair creations colour,
Are but symbols of the Poet's creed.
Murmuring streams that into distance lead;
They but give his fair creations colour,
Are but symbols of the Poet's creed.
For our nature is the clay he fashions,
Finds his faith within the hearts of men,
Gives his mighty language to their passions,
Moves the soul, and lays it calm again.
Finds his faith within the hearts of men,
Gives his mighty language to their passions,
Moves the soul, and lays it calm again.
Where their toils, and pleasures, and heart-burnings
Shall come round him with the busy throng;
Lay the lips that set their griefs and yearnings
To the music of his noble song.
Shall come round him with the busy throng;
Lay the lips that set their griefs and yearnings
To the music of his noble song.
353
Is not England's greatest glory granted
In the centre of her busiest life,
And her old memorial abbey haunted
With a murmur of perpetual strife?
In the centre of her busiest life,
And her old memorial abbey haunted
With a murmur of perpetual strife?
Thousand curious, careless glances scan it,
And the corner where her poets lie,
Listening, underneath their weight of granite,
To the sea of life that surges by.
And the corner where her poets lie,
Listening, underneath their weight of granite,
To the sea of life that surges by.
True, like fair ship in a land-lock'd haven,
Where no storm may touch the shelter'd wave,
Shakespeare, by his own immortal Avon,
Sleepeth ever in his guarded grave.
Where no storm may touch the shelter'd wave,
Shakespeare, by his own immortal Avon,
Sleepeth ever in his guarded grave.
True, our Wordsworth hath not left his mountains,
He lies tranquil in their grand embrace,
Lull'd his ear by Rotha's silver fountains,
Rydal's shadow on his silent face.
He lies tranquil in their grand embrace,
Lull'd his ear by Rotha's silver fountains,
Rydal's shadow on his silent face.
True, the white moon, like a lonely warder,
Guards a fair tomb in a ruin'd aisle,
Where the gentle Minstrel of the Border
Hath all Dryburgh for a burial pile.
Guards a fair tomb in a ruin'd aisle,
Where the gentle Minstrel of the Border
Hath all Dryburgh for a burial pile.
But the veriest child of Nature's teaching,
Whom she took a peasant from the plough,
Stoop'd her highest laurels to his reaching:
On her daisied bosom rests not now.
Whom she took a peasant from the plough,
Stoop'd her highest laurels to his reaching:
On her daisied bosom rests not now.
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High aspiring genius, earthly troubles,
In a close, mean suburb lie asleep;
Not where silver Nith, or Cluden bubbles,
Not where banks of bonny Doune are steep.
In a close, mean suburb lie asleep;
Not where silver Nith, or Cluden bubbles,
Not where banks of bonny Doune are steep.
Let the Poet lie among his brothers,
Where great words of Christian truth shall be;
He that hath most fellowship with others
Is most Christ-like in his sympathy.
Where great words of Christian truth shall be;
He that hath most fellowship with others
Is most Christ-like in his sympathy.
And all Nature's charms, the bright, the real,
Are but shadows, though they live and move,
Of his own more beautiful ideal,
Of his dream of purity and love.
Are but shadows, though they live and move,
Of his own more beautiful ideal,
Of his dream of purity and love.
Let the golden spring-flowers streak the meadows,
Let the storm gleam on the mountain's fall,
Greater than the sunlight, or the shadows,
Is the song divine that paints them all.
Let the storm gleam on the mountain's fall,
Greater than the sunlight, or the shadows,
Is the song divine that paints them all.
Therefore leave her in the gloom and riot;
Hope and truth shall be her grave-flowers here,
Human hearts throb round her, for the quiet
Of the calm day, and the starlight clear;
Hope and truth shall be her grave-flowers here,
Human hearts throb round her, for the quiet
Of the calm day, and the starlight clear;
For the music-breathing wind of summer
Words of love and pity shall be said;
And her own strain tell the careless comer,
Pass not lightly by our Poet's bed.
Words of love and pity shall be said;
And her own strain tell the careless comer,
Pass not lightly by our Poet's bed.
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SOUTHEY'S GRAVE
There never beam'd a brighter day
On ancient Skiddaw's glorious height,
Sweet Keswick water never lay
Wrapp'd in a flood of purer light,
When, woo'd by the delicious power
That rules the haunted mountain-land,
We roam'd, one golden summer hour,
By that wild lake's enchanted strand.
On ancient Skiddaw's glorious height,
Sweet Keswick water never lay
Wrapp'd in a flood of purer light,
When, woo'd by the delicious power
That rules the haunted mountain-land,
We roam'd, one golden summer hour,
By that wild lake's enchanted strand.
“And where does Southey sleep?” we said.
The peasant boy made answer none,
But toward that old white church he led,
And o'er its wall of guardian stone,
A bright and lonely burial ground,
Between the mountain and the wave,—
The boy stood by one low green mound
And answered: “This is Southey's grave!”
The peasant boy made answer none,
But toward that old white church he led,
And o'er its wall of guardian stone,
A bright and lonely burial ground,
Between the mountain and the wave,—
The boy stood by one low green mound
And answered: “This is Southey's grave!”
Things are there to the inward eye
That mingle in as sweet accord
As hues that on the mountains lie,
Or notes in one wild measure pour'd;
And sure that grave at Skiddaw's feet,
The waving grass, the chequer'd skies,
Calm Nature's lover! seem'd most meet
With thy soul's dream to harmonise.
That mingle in as sweet accord
As hues that on the mountains lie,
Or notes in one wild measure pour'd;
And sure that grave at Skiddaw's feet,
The waving grass, the chequer'd skies,
Calm Nature's lover! seem'd most meet
With thy soul's dream to harmonise.
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What though no clustering arches fair
Around thy sculptured marble rise,
Nor lingering sunbeam thither bear
The storied window's gorgeous dyes;
Nor stream of choral chanting sweet,
Borne down the minster's mighty aisle,
With ocean-swell of organ, meet
Beside thy monumental pile?
Around thy sculptured marble rise,
Nor lingering sunbeam thither bear
The storied window's gorgeous dyes;
Nor stream of choral chanting sweet,
Borne down the minster's mighty aisle,
With ocean-swell of organ, meet
Beside thy monumental pile?
Thou sleepest in a statelier fane,
High heaven's blue arch is o'er thee bent,
And winds and waves a sweeter strain
Make round thy mountain monument;
And sunbeams, when departing night
Rolls back the mists from Gowdar's crest,
Break through their clouds in rosy light,
To lie along thy quiet breast.
High heaven's blue arch is o'er thee bent,
And winds and waves a sweeter strain
Make round thy mountain monument;
And sunbeams, when departing night
Rolls back the mists from Gowdar's crest,
Break through their clouds in rosy light,
To lie along thy quiet breast.
Yes! many a shrine our feet have sought,
Where pillar'd aisle and fretted nave
Told man, the richly blest, had brought
Some portion back to Him who gave;
And thoughts of rapturous awe we knew,
But sweeter none than when we stay'd
By that green grave where daisies grew,
In Nature's own cathedral laid.
Where pillar'd aisle and fretted nave
Told man, the richly blest, had brought
Some portion back to Him who gave;
And thoughts of rapturous awe we knew,
But sweeter none than when we stay'd
By that green grave where daisies grew,
In Nature's own cathedral laid.
357
THE GRAVE BY ST. COLUMBA'S CROSS.
Now the storm is hush'd and over, past the fever's cruel pain,
Bear him gently, bear him kindly, O thou wildly rolling main.
Bear him gently, bear him kindly, O thou wildly rolling main.
From his wild home on the foreland to our sullen Northern shore,
On thine heart that beateth ever, bear the heart that beats no more.
On thine heart that beateth ever, bear the heart that beats no more.
There's a wailing on the waters, take him slowly from the boat,
Bear him up the rugged shingle, lift her anchor, let her float.
Bear him up the rugged shingle, lift her anchor, let her float.
Harsh her keel grates on the sandbank, with a sound like human pain,
For that burden so belovèd she shall never bear again.
For that burden so belovèd she shall never bear again.
Bear him gently, bear him fondly, by the bay-indented shore,
'Neath the purple-shadow'd Errigle, from far and lone Gweedore;
'Neath the purple-shadow'd Errigle, from far and lone Gweedore;
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By the black rock, and the sand-reach, washed brown with charging surf,
To the cross of St. Columba, lying dark along the turf.
To the cross of St. Columba, lying dark along the turf.
They are foot-sore, they are weary, they must turn away at last,
Those poor hearts that loved him dearly, and whose dream of light is past.
Those poor hearts that loved him dearly, and whose dream of light is past.
All the high hopes and the cheering that one steadfast human heart,
In the strength of Christ's great mercy, can to other men impart—
In the strength of Christ's great mercy, can to other men impart—
They are over, for the pastor, for the friend is borne along,
Linger fondly o'er the coffin, sing again his chosen song.
Linger fondly o'er the coffin, sing again his chosen song.
Onward, onward, like the booming from a distant cannon borne,
Comes the roar of the Atlantic, rushing madly on the Horn;
Comes the roar of the Atlantic, rushing madly on the Horn;
And Muciksh, like a giant huge, all the dim horizon guards,
When the risen sun looks golden, on the winter woods of Ards.
When the risen sun looks golden, on the winter woods of Ards.
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Pause again, ye weary bearers, lay him down a little while,
Ye must wait the mourner's coming, in the lowly church's aisle;
Ye must wait the mourner's coming, in the lowly church's aisle;
Through the misty moon he cometh, let him clasp that coffin bare,
For he saw not the last anguish, for he heard not the last prayer:
For he saw not the last anguish, for he heard not the last prayer:
Let him cling to that poor shadow, till beside the cross they part;
High words upon his trembling lip, grief's arrow in his heart.
High words upon his trembling lip, grief's arrow in his heart.
Ah, often, in the glorious land of the cedar and the palm,
He shall draw that golden arrow out, and find it tipp'd with balm.—
He shall draw that golden arrow out, and find it tipp'd with balm.—
It shall tell to him, who labours in the red heat of the sun,
Of the green land where he resteth, of the work so early done.
Of the green land where he resteth, of the work so early done.
In the south, where suns are brighter, and the breeze more softly blows,
And calm lakes, like silver dewdrops in the bosom of a rose,
And calm lakes, like silver dewdrops in the bosom of a rose,
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Lie alone in purple mountains, with the shadows of their crests,
In a hush of lonely grandeur, sleeping ever on their breasts,
In a hush of lonely grandeur, sleeping ever on their breasts,
There were three who went together, when the blessed Christmas broke,
Brought red berries from the holly, and green ivy from the oak;
Brought red berries from the holly, and green ivy from the oak;
That the types of life immortal for the feast of life might wave:
Now keep the three their Christmas Eve,—ah me! by an open grave.
Now keep the three their Christmas Eve,—ah me! by an open grave.
They keep their tryste—but two of them with hearts by sorrow riven,
And those words that sink in anguish, though they come to raise to heaven.
And those words that sink in anguish, though they come to raise to heaven.
Hear the tender voice that trembles as the “Dust to dust” is said,
See the tears that with the earth fall on the beautiful young head:
See the tears that with the earth fall on the beautiful young head:
And none—not love, not thrilling thoughts that tender memories lend,
Not the hot tears of his brother, not the sweet voice of his friend—
Not the hot tears of his brother, not the sweet voice of his friend—
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Can touch that heart, or link again that delicate chain of life,
That strain'd against the fever's grasp, and was shiver'd in the strife.
That strain'd against the fever's grasp, and was shiver'd in the strife.
But whether now he strikes his harp, with the holy Seraphim,
Who sang in the fields at midnight the first great Christmas hymn,
Who sang in the fields at midnight the first great Christmas hymn,
Or whether, 'neath that awful shrine, where the weary saints find rest,
He meets the souls who dropp'd asleep before him on Jesus' breast,
He meets the souls who dropp'd asleep before him on Jesus' breast,
He is safe, he is blest, where sin and sorrow can vex no more,
Where the works of the saints do follow them through the pearly door.
Where the works of the saints do follow them through the pearly door.
And if, in their high communion, our tears can his spirit move,
'Tis but with a wond'ring pity, born of sublimer love.
'Tis but with a wond'ring pity, born of sublimer love.
Now let him lie, the west'ring sun sinks into his ocean bed,
And the breeze that cannot reach him howls around his coffin'd head.
And the breeze that cannot reach him howls around his coffin'd head.
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Leave him lying where he would be, in the shadow of the cross:
Hoarsely sighs the wind of even, and we see the breakers toss,
Hoarsely sighs the wind of even, and we see the breakers toss,
And the dark rocks about Torraighe look like battlements of gold;
O, the glory of that amber over waves of sapphire roll'd!
O, the glory of that amber over waves of sapphire roll'd!
And O, that we were safe at last, in the golden city's street,
With the jasper walls above us, and the crystal at our feet!
With the jasper walls above us, and the crystal at our feet!
The Rev. T. Wolfe died in the discharge of his pastoral duties at Carrickfin, a peninsula on the coast of Donegal, and was interred beside the old cross of St. Columba, in the graveyard at Myragh, Christmas Eve, 1858.
IN MEMORIAM. THE HONOURABLE ARTHUR O'NEIL,
Who Died at Suez, 1870.
The hills are stained with purple dyes,
And crimson, such as only come
Sun-silver'd out of northern skies;
And round our home.
And crimson, such as only come
Sun-silver'd out of northern skies;
And round our home.
The broad breeze-wrinkled inland sea
Breaks on a thousand ripples bright,
The shadowy lines of hill and tree;
In the calm light,
Breaks on a thousand ripples bright,
The shadowy lines of hill and tree;
In the calm light,
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At distance mass'd, the woodlands melt
Into huge heaps of green, and gold,
Round that grim fortress, where the Celt
Held state of old.
Into huge heaps of green, and gold,
Round that grim fortress, where the Celt
Held state of old.
The wild woods gleam, the Castle hears
No sound save voice of happy life.
O wild Red Sea, that all the years
Hast heard the strife
No sound save voice of happy life.
O wild Red Sea, that all the years
Hast heard the strife
Of those two Continents that lock
In hard embrace thy restless deep,
Was thine a bosom fit to rock
Our Arthur's sleep?
In hard embrace thy restless deep,
Was thine a bosom fit to rock
Our Arthur's sleep?
Still by thy low grey-sanded shore
Dark nomad tribes at random stray,
And Europe's sons pass o'er and o'er,
Restless as they.
Dark nomad tribes at random stray,
And Europe's sons pass o'er and o'er,
Restless as they.
Still from the reed-encumber'd creek
The lazy land breeze curls the tide,
Where hour by hour he grew more weak,
And sank and died.
The lazy land breeze curls the tide,
Where hour by hour he grew more weak,
And sank and died.
Oh fading eye that wont to strain
Tenderly toward the dim north land,
Thin hand that long'd to press again
A father's hand
Tenderly toward the dim north land,
Thin hand that long'd to press again
A father's hand
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And take the hallowed bread and wine,
That while the kneeling kindred pray
His soul with words of love divine
Might pass away.
That while the kneeling kindred pray
His soul with words of love divine
Might pass away.
Dear heart, to faith and duty true,
That simply worked and meekly died;
Pale lips that thro' that aching blue,
Unbroken, wide,
That simply worked and meekly died;
Pale lips that thro' that aching blue,
Unbroken, wide,
Above, around them, long'd instead
For cools, and calms, and clouds of home,
And waked from feverish dreams, and said,
“I see her come.”
For cools, and calms, and clouds of home,
And waked from feverish dreams, and said,
“I see her come.”
In vain,—'Tis Suez,—new hope beguiles,
Poor lips, fond heart, in vain they pant
For Europe's old poetic Isles,
Her blue Levant.
Poor lips, fond heart, in vain they pant
For Europe's old poetic Isles,
Her blue Levant.
For when the ship, her sails unfurled,
Saw that the cloven strait was free,
And boldly plunged from world to world,
Ah, where was he?
Saw that the cloven strait was free,
And boldly plunged from world to world,
Ah, where was he?
Yet better thus—though love makes home—
To die upon this God-touched main,
Where Israel went into the foam
And rose again.
To die upon this God-touched main,
Where Israel went into the foam
And rose again.
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Sure the tired soul, life's journey done,
Had here a dying chamber grand,
Close by the isthmus that leads on
To God's own land,
Had here a dying chamber grand,
Close by the isthmus that leads on
To God's own land,
Under the sky in whose blue breast,
A little way on Charran's sod,
The ladder of the dream did rest,
By angels trod—
A little way on Charran's sod,
The ladder of the dream did rest,
By angels trod—
That everlasting sky whose light
Look'd on the long spice-laden train,
The camels of the Ishmaelite,
And Joseph's pain—
Look'd on the long spice-laden train,
The camels of the Ishmaelite,
And Joseph's pain—
The same that after heard the great
Wail of the Egyptians night and day,
When the embalm'd went back in state
To Machpelah.—
Wail of the Egyptians night and day,
When the embalm'd went back in state
To Machpelah.—
The same that all her star lamps lit
For child, and mother, wandering lone
When out of Egypt, as 'twas writ,
God call'd His Son.
For child, and mother, wandering lone
When out of Egypt, as 'twas writ,
God call'd His Son.
For what is home, and what is love?
But God's broad presence, and the sense
Of Christ's great work beneath, above,
Tender, immense,
But God's broad presence, and the sense
Of Christ's great work beneath, above,
Tender, immense,
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Making all climes, and every age,
One to the saved soul, that in faith
Treads after life's sore pilgrimage
The isthmus Death.—
One to the saved soul, that in faith
Treads after life's sore pilgrimage
The isthmus Death.—
That which no human hand may cleave:—
Thou hast gone up it to thy rest,
Thee in that bright new world we leave
On Jesus' breast.
Thou hast gone up it to thy rest,
Thee in that bright new world we leave
On Jesus' breast.
Safe from life's restless, passionate tide,
No wave can whelm, no foe pursue,
God made a wall on either side,
And led thee through.
No wave can whelm, no foe pursue,
God made a wall on either side,
And led thee through.
Sleep well, thy Machpelah is found
'Mid kindred dust, 'neath northern skies,
And only love shall watch the ground
Where Arthur lies.
'Mid kindred dust, 'neath northern skies,
And only love shall watch the ground
Where Arthur lies.
DEATH OF THE KAISER.
Hush! the drama of that long existence,
All its shifts and scenes are overpast,
The proud life that made such strong resistance
To death's summons has gone forth at last.
All its shifts and scenes are overpast,
The proud life that made such strong resistance
To death's summons has gone forth at last.
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Still'd awhile were strivings and desires,
While the expecting nations held their breath
To vibrations of the fateful wires,
To the tolling of the bells of death.
While the expecting nations held their breath
To vibrations of the fateful wires,
To the tolling of the bells of death.
Tell it gently by those olive gardens
Sloping sweetly to the tideless main,
Where dear love and fearful hope are wardens
By that bed of patience, and of pain.
Sloping sweetly to the tideless main,
Where dear love and fearful hope are wardens
By that bed of patience, and of pain.
Tell it gently—break not on their grieving
Filial agony and wifely fear—
Crowns and sceptres, ruling and achieving,
Name them not amid the silence here.
Filial agony and wifely fear—
Crowns and sceptres, ruling and achieving,
Name them not amid the silence here.
Who would count the spray like silver flying,
Love the mighty wave's sonorous flow,
When the gallant man-of-war is lying
Gored upon the cruel rocks below?
Love the mighty wave's sonorous flow,
When the gallant man-of-war is lying
Gored upon the cruel rocks below?
Nerveless now the hand that should have taken
From his strong right hand the sword of state.
Ah, stern keeper of thy rights unshaken,
Thou hast died too early or too late!
From his strong right hand the sword of state.
Ah, stern keeper of thy rights unshaken,
Thou hast died too early or too late!
Near a century of Europe's story
Interwoven hath been with thy name;
Thou hast watch'd the grandeur and the glory,
Passing dynasties, and blighted fame—
Interwoven hath been with thy name;
Thou hast watch'd the grandeur and the glory,
Passing dynasties, and blighted fame—
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Seen the great Usurper's fall and rising
Who perchance look'd coldly on thy face,
Never of that young bold hand surmising
That it held the fortune of his race.
Who perchance look'd coldly on thy face,
Never of that young bold hand surmising
That it held the fortune of his race.
What to thee the greatness of thy nation?
What to thee the splendour of thy state?
Or thine Empire's strong consolidation,
Europe's loud applause and France's hate?
What to thee the splendour of thy state?
Or thine Empire's strong consolidation,
Europe's loud applause and France's hate?
What to thee the clarion of the Kaiser
Bidding all th' Alsatian echoes wake?—
But whate'er of nobler, better, wiser,
Self-forgetting, done for duty's sake—
Bidding all th' Alsatian echoes wake?—
But whate'er of nobler, better, wiser,
Self-forgetting, done for duty's sake—
Whatsoe'er of mild and gentle, rather
Claiming sympathy than kingly sway,
Making all the Germans call thee “Father,”
This shall follow to the far away.
Claiming sympathy than kingly sway,
Making all the Germans call thee “Father,”
This shall follow to the far away.
Hush! the long, long silver cord is broken—
Lay the trophies by the stately bed,
God receive him!—let not more be spoken,
For to-day a great man lieth dead.
Lay the trophies by the stately bed,
God receive him!—let not more be spoken,
For to-day a great man lieth dead.
March 9, 1888.
369
IN MEMORIAM. MAXIMILIAN DUDLEY DIGGES DALISON,
Lieutenant in the Scots Guards.
Beneath the grey Egyptian sands,
Where the red sun burns out the green,
Here lies, laid down by soldier's hands,
Who died for country and for Queen—
The heart that thrill'd at duty's call,
The voice we ne'er shall hear again;
The gallant form belov'd of all
That fought and fell beside his men.
Where the red sun burns out the green,
Here lies, laid down by soldier's hands,
Who died for country and for Queen—
The heart that thrill'd at duty's call,
The voice we ne'er shall hear again;
The gallant form belov'd of all
That fought and fell beside his men.
What though the red wind-driven dust
Heap the rude cross above his grave,
Love has her tears, and faith her trust,
And Christ, his hope, is strong to save.
Sleep well, O Soldier: trumpet tone
Thine ear shall startle yet once more,
When the Great Captain calls His own
Out of all graves by sea and shore.
Heap the rude cross above his grave,
Love has her tears, and faith her trust,
And Christ, his hope, is strong to save.
Sleep well, O Soldier: trumpet tone
Thine ear shall startle yet once more,
When the Great Captain calls His own
Out of all graves by sea and shore.
370
IN MEMORIAM. RIGHT HON. ARTHUR KAVANAGH.
30th December, 1889.
Lay him down, lay him down in the full eye of Heaven,
Beside these grey walls in the fields of his home,
Where Princes, perchance, of his line have been shriven,
And peasants for prayer and for comfort have come.
Beside these grey walls in the fields of his home,
Where Princes, perchance, of his line have been shriven,
And peasants for prayer and for comfort have come.
Lay him down—in all Erin no temple so fit is
To cradle the bravest and best of his name;
The soft winds of even shall sing his Dimittis,
And stars for his lyke-wake at midnight shall flame.
To cradle the bravest and best of his name;
The soft winds of even shall sing his Dimittis,
And stars for his lyke-wake at midnight shall flame.
Meet resting this spot in its wildness and beauty
For the Patriot true in a nation's despite,
The man that was faithful to God and to duty,
Whose judgment unerring still held to the right;
For the Patriot true in a nation's despite,
The man that was faithful to God and to duty,
Whose judgment unerring still held to the right;
Whose soul was so grand in its simple reliance,
Who steadfastly purposed and patiently wrought,
Who feared not opposers, nor quailed at defiance,
And smiled at the honours that found him unsought.
Who steadfastly purposed and patiently wrought,
Who feared not opposers, nor quailed at defiance,
And smiled at the honours that found him unsought.
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Devoted, heart-true to the people who scorned him,
Who craftily injured and cruelly spoke—
Unable to value the gifts that adorned him,
Or fathom the love of the heart that they broke.
Who craftily injured and cruelly spoke—
Unable to value the gifts that adorned him,
Or fathom the love of the heart that they broke.
Ingrate and forgetful—Ah! tenderly leave him;
The Arms everlasting around him are cast—
No chiding can chafe or ingratitude grieve him
Who sleeps in the Lord when his labour is past.
The Arms everlasting around him are cast—
No chiding can chafe or ingratitude grieve him
Who sleeps in the Lord when his labour is past.
IN MEMORIAM A. T.
We walk by sense, we walk by sight,
A veil is on our eyes,
It hides the spirit world of light,
That all around us lies.
A veil is on our eyes,
It hides the spirit world of light,
That all around us lies.
It mocks the mourner's eager ken,
The mother's yearning fond,
But children pure, and childlike men,
Can sometimes see beyond.
The mother's yearning fond,
But children pure, and childlike men,
Can sometimes see beyond.
“To be with Christ is better,” sigh'd
The Apostle worn and proved,
“Come, Lord, O quickly come!” he cried,
The man that Jesus loved.
The Apostle worn and proved,
“Come, Lord, O quickly come!” he cried,
The man that Jesus loved.
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And still athwart the cloud unroll'd
Some gleams to them are given,
Whose angels evermore behold
The Father's face in Heaven.
Some gleams to them are given,
Whose angels evermore behold
The Father's face in Heaven.
And still the same fair home they paint,
By the same hope beguiled,—
So much is childlike in the Saint,
And saintlike in the child.
By the same hope beguiled,—
So much is childlike in the Saint,
And saintlike in the child.
And he, with Christ's redeeming sign
Scarce dried upon his face,
A Lamb just offered at the shrine,
Still wrapt in his embrace,
Scarce dried upon his face,
A Lamb just offered at the shrine,
Still wrapt in his embrace,
With prescience of another clime,
That scarce another seems,
So fair to him the things of Time,
So pure are all his dreams,
That scarce another seems,
So fair to him the things of Time,
So pure are all his dreams,
He passes in with folded hands,
A prayer on his last breath,
He sees no strait between the lands,
Nor knows that this is death,
A prayer on his last breath,
He sees no strait between the lands,
Nor knows that this is death,
But thinks beyond the sun and stars,
Beyond where eye can ken,
His little hand shall lift the bars
And take his lov'd ones in.
Beyond where eye can ken,
His little hand shall lift the bars
And take his lov'd ones in.
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So let him lie, the sweet hands laid
Unfolded on his breast,
The “tender Shepherd” as he prayed,
Has rocked His lamb to rest.
Unfolded on his breast,
The “tender Shepherd” as he prayed,
Has rocked His lamb to rest.
A BROTHER'S GRAVE.
In the Church's shadow holy,
Where the tall yews darkly wave,
Spring the wild flowers, sweet and lowly,
O'er our Brother's early grave.
Mother, haste; the sunset brightly
Tints yon western cloud with red,
Fair young sister, tread thou lightly
Thro' the calm and quiet dead.
Where the tall yews darkly wave,
Spring the wild flowers, sweet and lowly,
O'er our Brother's early grave.
Mother, haste; the sunset brightly
Tints yon western cloud with red,
Fair young sister, tread thou lightly
Thro' the calm and quiet dead.
With the summer breezes blending,
With the vesper's lingering chime,
Sweet soft voices, hence ascending,
Fill the solemn twilight time.
Thus they whisper: “Mourners weary,
Dry the fond and fruitless tear;
Hopeless heart, or spirit dreary,
Christian kindred, bring not here.
With the vesper's lingering chime,
Sweet soft voices, hence ascending,
Fill the solemn twilight time.
Thus they whisper: “Mourners weary,
Dry the fond and fruitless tear;
Hopeless heart, or spirit dreary,
Christian kindred, bring not here.
“We would speak of chastened gladness,
Mindful of our former trust,
Whom with words of hopeful sadness,
Earth to earth, and dust to dust,
Ye with thought of future glory,
Here have laid with prayers and vows,
Like red leaves in forest hoary,
Fallen from the Autumn boughs.
Mindful of our former trust,
Whom with words of hopeful sadness,
Earth to earth, and dust to dust,
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Here have laid with prayers and vows,
Like red leaves in forest hoary,
Fallen from the Autumn boughs.
“Like departing stars, whose morrow
Is in climes more bright and blest,
Stand not ye in idle sorrow
Brooding o'er our churchyard rest.
Ye still erring, and still mortal,
Striving yet with sin and care,
Turn ye to yon old grey portal,
Seek the courts of praise and prayer.
Is in climes more bright and blest,
Stand not ye in idle sorrow
Brooding o'er our churchyard rest.
Ye still erring, and still mortal,
Striving yet with sin and care,
Turn ye to yon old grey portal,
Seek the courts of praise and prayer.
“In the certain hope he giveth,
Three days bound in mortal sleep,
In whose life, whoever liveth,
Death's cold hand shall never keep;
Bend ye by yon hallowed altar,
Shed the penitential tear,
Ask the faith that shall not falter,
Learn the love that knows not fear.
Three days bound in mortal sleep,
In whose life, whoever liveth,
Death's cold hand shall never keep;
Bend ye by yon hallowed altar,
Shed the penitential tear,
Ask the faith that shall not falter,
Learn the love that knows not fear.
“Then, once more with cheerful faces,
Patient hearts and spirits bold,
Each within your earthly places,
Fight where we have fought of old,
That when toil, strife, pain, are over,
And the same sweet dirge is said,
You the same green turf may cover,
Resting with the blessed dead.”
Patient hearts and spirits bold,
Each within your earthly places,
Fight where we have fought of old,
That when toil, strife, pain, are over,
And the same sweet dirge is said,
You the same green turf may cover,
Resting with the blessed dead.”
| Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander | |