 | Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton |  |
175
FUNEREAL WREATHS.
EDWARD BROTHERTON.
Well may they fall—these tears; and yet, dear Friend,
Long mourning years will not suffice to feel
The fulness of our loss, nor to the end
Its bitterness reveal.
Long mourning years will not suffice to feel
The fulness of our loss, nor to the end
Its bitterness reveal.
For thine was not a mind of vulgar mould;
Thy purpose never needed mask or hood;
But always for the Right thy heart was bold,
And steadfast for the Good.
Thy purpose never needed mask or hood;
But always for the Right thy heart was bold,
And steadfast for the Good.
God gave to thee looks kind and dignified,
Gave wisdom's loving eyes and generous brow.
Not oft I've known, than thine, a heart more wide,—
A nobler man, than thou.
Gave wisdom's loving eyes and generous brow.
Not oft I've known, than thine, a heart more wide,—
A nobler man, than thou.
176
What courteous charities adorn'd thy hand!
Christ was thy Master, and thou didst rejoice
To woo men to His Wedding; didst command
With a most kindly voice.
Christ was thy Master, and thou didst rejoice
To woo men to His Wedding; didst command
With a most kindly voice.
Even wilful error could not hate the sound,
Though writhing at the truth, of thy appealing,—
Truth clad in words of earnestness profound,
And full of solemn feeling;—
Though writhing at the truth, of thy appealing,—
Truth clad in words of earnestness profound,
And full of solemn feeling;—
Because so tender in its sternest mood,
Thy manner was; so apt in loving meetness;
So gracious in its mastery; so good
And wholesome in its sweetness.
Thy manner was; so apt in loving meetness;
So gracious in its mastery; so good
And wholesome in its sweetness.
We, who had known thee long, and recognised
That only thy great meekness thee detain'd
From general honour,—thee whom we so prized
With reverence unfeign'd;—
That only thy great meekness thee detain'd
From general honour,—thee whom we so prized
With reverence unfeign'd;—
How glad were we when thou the bonds didst break
Of diffidence, thy privacy off cast,
And as a leader of the people take
Thy rightful place at last!
Of diffidence, thy privacy off cast,
And as a leader of the people take
Thy rightful place at last!
177
Now, high and blissful is thy heaven, we know;
But thy true heart, was it not always set
On service, not on pleasure? And earth's woe
Sorely requires thee yet.
But thy true heart, was it not always set
On service, not on pleasure? And earth's woe
Sorely requires thee yet.
Why might not Heaven still spare thee to our need?
For thee, with this sad earth can heaven compare?
There are no orphans' hearts that blindly bleed,
No ragged children there.
For thee, with this sad earth can heaven compare?
There are no orphans' hearts that blindly bleed,
No ragged children there.
Alas, poor starving minds that want in vain!
Now thou art gone, who will regard their need?
So feel? So strive? So toil with might and main?
With such persist ence plead?
Now thou art gone, who will regard their need?
So feel? So strive? So toil with might and main?
With such persist ence plead?
Yet 'tis no mystery why thou didst die:
Surely from earth thou hadst not been set free
But that for some still larger work on high
The Lord had need of thee;
Surely from earth thou hadst not been set free
But that for some still larger work on high
The Lord had need of thee;
'Tis for some ministry of loving skill,
Some heaven-augmenting function wide and deep,
Fit just for thee as for none else to fill,
That we are left to weep.
Some heaven-augmenting function wide and deep,
Fit just for thee as for none else to fill,
That we are left to weep.
178
J. B.
The church sometimes gives heaven men
Of whom with cause heaven might complain
That, though it gets accession then,
'Tis more a getting than a gain.
Of whom with cause heaven might complain
That, though it gets accession then,
'Tis more a getting than a gain.
But now a boon the church imparts;
Heaven with new riches we endow;
One after their own loving hearts
To the good angels give we now.
Heaven with new riches we endow;
One after their own loving hearts
To the good angels give we now.
Not without grief we let him pass;
We are not yet, as angels, good;
To heaven we give what we, alas!
Would have kept from it if we could.
We are not yet, as angels, good;
To heaven we give what we, alas!
Would have kept from it if we could.
For he we mourn was one of those
Whose presence of itself affords
Heart-music that in silence flows,
And comforts more than many words.
Whose presence of itself affords
Heart-music that in silence flows,
And comforts more than many words.
179
His goodness we all have by heart:—
I've known him by a mourner stand
And most unsought-for help impart
By the mere pressure of a hand,—
I've known him by a mourner stand
And most unsought-for help impart
By the mere pressure of a hand,—
A hand that, round the mourner's put
In silence, yet as much hath done
As though 'twere not one only, but
The hand of every friend in one.
In silence, yet as much hath done
As though 'twere not one only, but
The hand of every friend in one.
His trustful heart laid loving stress
On God's love, howsoever tried,
And even in most sore distress
Was sure the Lord would still provide;
On God's love, howsoever tried,
And even in most sore distress
Was sure the Lord would still provide;
And always his life's fact made clear
What his life's theory express'd,
That in the end it will appear
That all is ever for the best.
What his life's theory express'd,
That in the end it will appear
That all is ever for the best.
He had his griefs, like other men;
But to God's will could softly bow,
And, smiling, say, ‘Heaven is not then
And there, but heaven is here and now.
But to God's will could softly bow,
And, smiling, say, ‘Heaven is not then
And there, but heaven is here and now.
180
A happy man whose heart would feel
And head would think for those around;
Ready to find out ills to heal,
As well as heal the ills he found.
And head would think for those around;
Ready to find out ills to heal,
As well as heal the ills he found.
Still towards our Father he ascends;
Still towards our God aspires his way,
Where she, his dearest, and their friends
Angelic, throng the gates of day.
Still towards our God aspires his way,
Where she, his dearest, and their friends
Angelic, throng the gates of day.
To these how thankless and how wrong
Our sorrow for his loss appears!
‘Nay, sing,’ they cry, ‘a grateful song
That ye have had him all these years.
Our sorrow for his loss appears!
‘Nay, sing,’ they cry, ‘a grateful song
That ye have had him all these years.
‘Now more than ever yours indeed,
From him more grandly than before
Shall heavenly influences proceed,
To be your blessing evermore.’
From him more grandly than before
Shall heavenly influences proceed,
To be your blessing evermore.’
October, 1876.
181
B. M. B.
What, gone? Our fair young neighbour?
It cannot, cannot be true!—
But how will the mother bear it?
And what will the father do?
It cannot, cannot be true!—
But how will the mother bear it?
And what will the father do?
Alas, for the hearts sore wounded,
For the lives so much undone!
Alas for their home, their hearth, their earth,
Alas for their moon and sun!
For the lives so much undone!
Alas for their home, their hearth, their earth,
Alas for their moon and sun!
For the sky will fill again with light,
But not as it fill'd before;
The hearth-fire crackling may be bright,
But how can it warm them more?
But not as it fill'd before;
The hearth-fire crackling may be bright,
But how can it warm them more?
Weary, old earth will look, and worn,
And home some alien scene
Planted with many a keen heart-thorn
Wherever her hand hath been,—
And home some alien scene
Planted with many a keen heart-thorn
Wherever her hand hath been,—
182
Planted with thorn by loving hands
That only planted flowers;
But love-flowers turn to roots of pain
When wash'd by the death-grief's showers.
That only planted flowers;
But love-flowers turn to roots of pain
When wash'd by the death-grief's showers.
Yet can it be, Fair Neighbour,—
Gone, with the sweet young face,
The eyes so bright with kindly light,
And the form so gentle with grace?
Gone, with the sweet young face,
The eyes so bright with kindly light,
And the form so gentle with grace?
The mouth that sang so sweetly
As the music moved along?
The voice that seem'd in common speech
Almost as pleasant as song?
As the music moved along?
The voice that seem'd in common speech
Almost as pleasant as song?
Gone to the land so silent,
The home hid deep in the sky,
Whereto our questioning hearts look up,
But never for reply?
The home hid deep in the sky,
Whereto our questioning hearts look up,
But never for reply?
Alas, alas! Fair Neighbour,
We had not thought to stay
So long on earth to outlive thy birth
Into the heavens gay.
We had not thought to stay
So long on earth to outlive thy birth
Into the heavens gay.
183
And yet, if we were wiser,
We should deeply thankful be
That the heaven abiding our coming
Is henceforth the richer with thee;
We should deeply thankful be
That the heaven abiding our coming
Is henceforth the richer with thee;
For when it opens around us,
And we breathe its welcoming air,
It will take us in with a happier smile
For thy sweet presence there.
And we breathe its welcoming air,
It will take us in with a happier smile
For thy sweet presence there.
February, 1879.
184
H. P.
Love, broken-hearted, cried:—
‘Why hath this poet died?
Why should a harp, just tuned and taught to play,
Be given no concert-day,
But idly broken up and cast away?—
Doth some Child-god complete
Here His poor music-toys,
To please Himself a moment with their noise,
Then swell the piteous pile beneath His feet?’
‘Why hath this poet died?
Why should a harp, just tuned and taught to play,
Be given no concert-day,
But idly broken up and cast away?—
Doth some Child-god complete
Here His poor music-toys,
To please Himself a moment with their noise,
Then swell the piteous pile beneath His feet?’
‘Oh, shame!’ the Angels said;
‘But have you never read
How blessëd, yea
How blessëd, they
Who in the Lord are dead?
They from their labours rest,
And their works follow them, in heavenly state,
To new achievements wonderful and great,
Where the best pow'rs their souls possess'd,
Toiling no more. work free, spontaneous, and blest.
‘Oh, let your thoughts be lifted on our wings!
What seem'd your own dear harp, whose tender strings
You saw destroy'd ev'n in your sad embrace,
Was but the covering case
Of the true harp and music's real things.
What if our songful companies, to praise
The Ancient One of Days,
Had need now, for their exquisite content,
Of one more instrument?
Deem you it strange that His permission went
With our keen search around
For even the very best that might be found?
Far above earthly thoughts and ways,
Your son shall help us, through the eternal days,
To sing of Love the omnipotence and praise.
So be you of good cheer;
Let no more tears be shed;
Restrain your sobbings, that your hearts may hear
Him singing, in our choirs, glad, loud and clear,
How great and marvellous His ways Who said,—
“Write, Blessëd are the dead.”’
‘But have you never read
How blessëd, yea
How blessëd, they
Who in the Lord are dead?
They from their labours rest,
And their works follow them, in heavenly state,
To new achievements wonderful and great,
Where the best pow'rs their souls possess'd,
Toiling no more. work free, spontaneous, and blest.
185
What seem'd your own dear harp, whose tender strings
You saw destroy'd ev'n in your sad embrace,
Was but the covering case
Of the true harp and music's real things.
What if our songful companies, to praise
The Ancient One of Days,
Had need now, for their exquisite content,
Of one more instrument?
Deem you it strange that His permission went
With our keen search around
For even the very best that might be found?
Far above earthly thoughts and ways,
Your son shall help us, through the eternal days,
To sing of Love the omnipotence and praise.
So be you of good cheer;
Let no more tears be shed;
Restrain your sobbings, that your hearts may hear
Him singing, in our choirs, glad, loud and clear,
How great and marvellous His ways Who said,—
“Write, Blessëd are the dead.”’
April, 1884.
| Poems by Henry Septimus Sutton | |