Part 58 (1/2)

Here in this lovely lap of bloom, The grace of glen and glade, That tender days and nights illume, My gentle friend was laid.

I do not mark the sh.e.l.l that lies Beneath the touching flowers; I only see the radiant eyes Of other scenes and hours.

I only turn, by grief inspired, Like some forsaken thing, To look upon a life retired As hushed Bethesda's spring.

The glory of unblemished days Is on the silent mound-- The light of years, too pure for praise; I kneel on holy ground!

Here is the clay of one whose mind Was fairer than the dew, The sweetest nature of his kind I haply ever knew.

This Christian, walking on the white Clear paths apart from strife, Kept far from all the heat and light That fills his father's life.

The clamour and exceeding flame Were never in his days: A higher object was his aim Than thrones of s.h.i.+ne and praise.

Ah! like an English April psalm, That floats by sea and strand, He pa.s.sed away into the calm Of the Eternal Land.

The chair he filled is set aside Upon his father's floor; In morning hours, at eventide, His step is heard no more.

No more his face the forest knows; His voice is of the past; But from his life of beauty flows A radiance that will last.

Yea, from the hours that heard his speech High s.h.i.+ning mem'ries give That fine example which will teach Our children how to live.

Here, kneeling in the body, far From grave of flower and dew, My friend beyond the path of star, I say these words to you.

Though you were as a fleeting flame Across my road austere, The memory of your face became A thing for ever dear.

I never have forgotten yet The Christian's gentle touch; And, since the time when last we met, You know I've suffered much.

I feel that I have given pain By certain words and deeds, But stricken here with Sorrow's rain, My contrite spirit bleeds.

For your sole sake I rue the blow, But this a.s.surance send: I smote, in noon, the public foe, But not the private friend.

I know that once I wronged your sire, But since that awful day My soul has pa.s.sed through blood and fire, My head is very grey.

Here let me pause! From years like yours There ever flows and thrives The splendid blessing which endures Beyond our little lives.

From lonely lands across the wave Is sent to-night by me This rose of reverence for the grave Beside the mountain lea.

At Her Window

To-night a strong south wind in thunder sings Across the city. Now by salt wet flats, And ridges perished with the breath of drought, Comes up a deep, sonorous, gulf-like voice-- Far-travelled herald of some distant storm-- That strikes with harsh gigantic wings the cliff, Where twofold Otway meets his straitened surf, And makes a white wrath of a league of sea.

To-night the fretted Yarra chafes its banks, And dusks and glistens; while the city shows A ring of windy light. From street to street The noise of labour, linked to hurrying wheels, Rolls off, as rolls the stately sound of wave, When he that hears it hastens from the sh.o.r.e.

To-night beside a moody window sits A wife who watches for her absent love; Her home is in a dim suburban street, In which the winds, like one with straitened breath, Now fleet with whispers dry and short half-sobs, Or pause and beat against the showery panes Like homeless mem'ries seeking for a home.