 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
77
MEMORIAL SONNETS
79
The Village Naturalist
In Memory of William Greenip, 2nd November, 1890.
God often fills a poor man's patient heart
With His own reverent love and constant care
For all the things He hath created fair,—
Birds, flowers, the wings that fly, the fins that dart,—
And therewithal by nature's winsome art,—
Leads him to heights of philosophic air
Where clamour dies, Heaven's ether is so rare,
And bids him walk with gentleness apart.
With His own reverent love and constant care
For all the things He hath created fair,—
Birds, flowers, the wings that fly, the fins that dart,—
And therewithal by nature's winsome art,—
Leads him to heights of philosophic air
Where clamour dies, Heaven's ether is so rare,
And bids him walk with gentleness apart.
Friend! such wert thou: the Newlands valley dew,
The star o'er Grisedale's purple head that shone,
Were not more silent, but each stream and glade,
Each bird that flashed, all dusky moths that flew,
All flowers held commune with thee. Thou art gone:
And nature mourns the tender heart she made.
The star o'er Grisedale's purple head that shone,
Were not more silent, but each stream and glade,
Each bird that flashed, all dusky moths that flew,
All flowers held commune with thee. Thou art gone:
And nature mourns the tender heart she made.
80
A Lake Country Guide
H. I. J., 1891.
On moor and fell, in silent mountain places,
We meet him still to ask him of the way.
By pathless crag, where streams perplexing stray,
Each shepherd's track familiarly he traces;
Or, where the Greta by the grey town races
And brims its pools, now solemn and now gay,
He mingles with the old men at their play
Or gazes on the children's happy faces.
We meet him still to ask him of the way.
By pathless crag, where streams perplexing stray,
Each shepherd's track familiarly he traces;
Or, where the Greta by the grey town races
And brims its pools, now solemn and now gay,
He mingles with the old men at their play
Or gazes on the children's happy faces.
But whether through green park or purple mountain,
Free on the sunny height, by shore or wood,
That never-resting spirit haunts us still!
His heart of hope springs upward like a fountain,
Who blessed the far-off future, and whose will
Was ever set to serve the public good.
Free on the sunny height, by shore or wood,
That never-resting spirit haunts us still!
His heart of hope springs upward like a fountain,
Who blessed the far-off future, and whose will
Was ever set to serve the public good.
81
John Ruskin
At Rest, Brantwood, Sunday, 21st January, 1900.
The rose of morning fades, and ghostly pale
The mountains seem to move into the rain;
The leafless hedges sigh, the water-plain
Sobs, and a sound of tears is in the vale;
For he whose voice for right shall never fail,
Whose spirit-sword shall ne'er be drawn in vain—
God's Knight, at rest beyond the touch of pain,
Lies clad in Death's impenetrable mail.
The mountains seem to move into the rain;
The leafless hedges sigh, the water-plain
Sobs, and a sound of tears is in the vale;
For he whose voice for right shall never fail,
Whose spirit-sword shall ne'er be drawn in vain—
God's Knight, at rest beyond the touch of pain,
Lies clad in Death's impenetrable mail.
And all the men whose helmets ever wore
The wild red rose St. George for sign has given
Stand round, and bow the head and feel their swords,
And swear by him who taught them deeds not words;
To fight for Love, till, as in days of yore
Labour have joy, and earth be filled with Heaven.
The wild red rose St. George for sign has given
Stand round, and bow the head and feel their swords,
And swear by him who taught them deeds not words;
To fight for Love, till, as in days of yore
Labour have joy, and earth be filled with Heaven.
82
At Ruskin's Grave
On His Birthday, 8th February, 1900.
To greet his natal day the heavens had lent
Unto his rest their fitting garniture,
The snow had fallen innocently pure
O'er him whose life was pure and innocent.
One way, it seemed, the footmarks all were bent,
As if the mounded earth had magic lure,
From out the grave to cheer and reassure,
A spirit voice continually was sent.
Unto his rest their fitting garniture,
The snow had fallen innocently pure
O'er him whose life was pure and innocent.
One way, it seemed, the footmarks all were bent,
As if the mounded earth had magic lure,
From out the grave to cheer and reassure,
A spirit voice continually was sent.
The silver mountains called from bluest air,
But he had entered to his prophet's cell,
New thought in deeper quietude to take;
While from an unassailable citadel
In holy ground, beside the tranquil lake,
Came forth his mind to make the world more fair.
But he had entered to his prophet's cell,
New thought in deeper quietude to take;
While from an unassailable citadel
In holy ground, beside the tranquil lake,
Came forth his mind to make the world more fair.
83
In Memoriam
J. R. A., 20th March, 1907.
You, who in Balliol days at work were seen
With him we called ‘the Master’—him who bade
Us toil at Hinksey with the pick and spade
To give poor men a pleasant village-green—
Who, later, here in Crosthwaite's vale serene
Lived out your student-life, and plied your trade
Of seeking Thought, Art, History, Faith to aid
The quest for Truth that grew with quest more keen—
With him we called ‘the Master’—him who bade
Us toil at Hinksey with the pick and spade
To give poor men a pleasant village-green—
Who, later, here in Crosthwaite's vale serene
Lived out your student-life, and plied your trade
Of seeking Thought, Art, History, Faith to aid
The quest for Truth that grew with quest more keen—
Is it for nothing that your heart has given
Such strenuous work for wisdom, not for fame?
Nay, other worlds shall gain your store's increase,
The seed you garnered yet shall fruit in heaven,
And here your memory be a man of Peace,
Who, loving light, toiled on till morning came.
Such strenuous work for wisdom, not for fame?
Nay, other worlds shall gain your store's increase,
The seed you garnered yet shall fruit in heaven,
And here your memory be a man of Peace,
Who, loving light, toiled on till morning came.
84
Senator Hoar
1906.
You of the spirit fresh with Mayflower dew,
A Pilgrim Father faithful to the end,
Stout-hearted foe and truest-friend,
Who never trimmed your sails to winds that blew
With breath of popular favour, but foreknew
Storm followed sun, and, knowing, did depend
On One behind all storm high aid to lend,
And from Heaven's fount alone your wisdom drew.
A Pilgrim Father faithful to the end,
Stout-hearted foe and truest-friend,
Who never trimmed your sails to winds that blew
With breath of popular favour, but foreknew
Storm followed sun, and, knowing, did depend
On One behind all storm high aid to lend,
And from Heaven's fount alone your wisdom drew.
Farewell! In these illiterate later days
We ill can spare the good grey head that wore
The honours of a nation. Fare you well!
When Love and Justice climb the starry ways,
And Freedom wins the height where angels dwell,
They there shall find your presence gone before.
We ill can spare the good grey head that wore
The honours of a nation. Fare you well!
When Love and Justice climb the starry ways,
And Freedom wins the height where angels dwell,
They there shall find your presence gone before.
85
John Milton
1608–1908.
In soft Autumnal sunshine to and fro
I saw a blind man faltering on his way;
His face was delicate pale, his cloak was grey;
He lived, men said, hard by at Bunhill Row.
I gazed and passed, how little could I know
That Milton's verses three hundred years away
With rhythmic thunder-roll would still hold sway,
And his sonorous prose like trumpets blow.
I saw a blind man faltering on his way;
His face was delicate pale, his cloak was grey;
He lived, men said, hard by at Bunhill Row.
I gazed and passed, how little could I know
That Milton's verses three hundred years away
With rhythmic thunder-roll would still hold sway,
And his sonorous prose like trumpets blow.
But this was he whose pen was as a sword
To shake the world and vex the heart of kings,
The man who saw the fading of his dream,
Yet held to the end his high imaginings
For freedom, felt Heaven's light thro' darkness beam
And uncomplaining followed Truth the Lord.
To shake the world and vex the heart of kings,
The man who saw the fading of his dream,
Yet held to the end his high imaginings
For freedom, felt Heaven's light thro' darkness beam
And uncomplaining followed Truth the Lord.
86
The Gift of the Leigh Woods to Bristol
In honour of G. W., 30th March.
Flow happier Avon downward to the sea,
And merchants happier spread your roving sails;
These woods when back you bring your Autumn bales
Will still be here to give you golden fee;
For now the lawns and leafy groves of Leigh
Proclaim the patriot's spirit still prevails,
And fearless in this vale of nightingales
The birds may nest, the children wander free.
And merchants happier spread your roving sails;
These woods when back you bring your Autumn bales
Will still be here to give you golden fee;
For now the lawns and leafy groves of Leigh
Proclaim the patriot's spirit still prevails,
And fearless in this vale of nightingales
The birds may nest, the children wander free.
City that knew Sebastian Cabot's face,
Where Cannynge worked and Colston grew to fame,
Fling out your flags and from the topmost tower
Let the loud trumpet tell this deed of grace,
For never nobler benefaction came
To give to toil, calm nature's healing power.
Where Cannynge worked and Colston grew to fame,
Fling out your flags and from the topmost tower
Let the loud trumpet tell this deed of grace,
For never nobler benefaction came
To give to toil, calm nature's healing power.
87
Algernon Charles Swinburne
10th April, 1909.
Fold up the scroll! He goes back whence he came
Silent to silence, but on earth his song
Sounds and shall sound while any tyrant-wrong
Or foul hypocrisy needs be put to shame.
Bind purple amaranth in his hair whose flame
Could never burn to ash, and let the throng
Be hushed, and bear the poet's bier along
To where salt wind and sea shall bless his name.
Silent to silence, but on earth his song
Sounds and shall sound while any tyrant-wrong
Or foul hypocrisy needs be put to shame.
Bind purple amaranth in his hair whose flame
Could never burn to ash, and let the throng
Be hushed, and bear the poet's bier along
To where salt wind and sea shall bless his name.
As long as Death, the intolerable thing,
Hurts men, as long as mortals are not free,
The spirit that gave his body to the dead
Shall sure return—not yet the dawn is red,
And lo! to greet him all fair fountains spring,
All foam-flowers of the inviolable sea.
Hurts men, as long as mortals are not free,
The spirit that gave his body to the dead
Shall sure return—not yet the dawn is red,
And lo! to greet him all fair fountains spring,
All foam-flowers of the inviolable sea.
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