Songs from the Mountains (1880). In Memory of John Fairfax
Because this man fulfilled his days, Like one who walks with steadfast gaze Averted from forbidden ways With lures of fair, false flowerage deep, Behold the Lord whose throne is dim With fires of flaming seraphim— The Christ that suffered sent for him: "He giveth His beloved sleep." Think not that souls whose deeds august Put sin to shame and make men just Become at last the helpless dust That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep! The higher life within us cries, Like some fine spirit from the skies, "The Father's blessing on us lies— 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'" Not human sleep—the fitful rest With evil shapes of dreams distressed,— But perfect quiet, unexpressed By any worldly word we keep. The dim Hereafter framed in creeds May not be this; but He who reads Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds— "He giveth His beloved sleep." Be sure this hero who has passed The human space—the outer vast— Who worked in harness to the last, Doth now a hallowed harvest reap. Love sees his grave, nor turns away— The eyes of faith are like the day, And grief has not a word to say— "He giveth His beloved sleep." That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws A light, which puts to shame the rose, Across his grave, because she knows The son whose ashes it doth keep; And, like far music, this is heard— "Behold the man who never stirred, By word of his, an angry word!— 'He giveth His beloved sleep.'" He earned his place. Within his hands, The power which counsels and commands, And shapes the social life of lands, Became a blessing pure and deep. Through thirty years of turbulence Our thoughts were sweetened with a sense Of his benignant influence— "He giveth His beloved sleep." No splendid talents, which excite Like music, songs, or floods of light, Were his; but, rather, all those bright, Calm qualities of soul which reap A mute, but certain, fine respect, Not only from a source elect, But from the hearts of every sect— "He giveth His beloved sleep." He giveth His beloved rest! The faithful soul that onward pressed, Unswerving, from Life's east to west, By paths austere and passes steep, Is past all toil; and, over Death, With reverent hands and prayerful breath, I plant this flower, alive with faith— "He giveth His beloved sleep."
Henry Kendall’s other poems:
