In Memory of John Fairfax
Because this man fulfilled his days,Like one who walks with steadfast gazeAverted from forbidden waysWith lures of fair, false flowerage deep,Behold the Lord whose throne is dimWith fires of flaming seraphim—The Christ that suffered sent for him:“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
Think not that souls whose deeds augustPut sin to shame and make men justBecome at last the helpless dustThat 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 restWith evil shapes of dreams distressed,—But perfect quiet, unexpressedBy any worldly word we keep.The dim Hereafter framed in creedsMay not be this; but He who readsOur lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds—“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
Be sure this hero who has passedThe 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, throwsA light, which puts to shame the rose,Across his grave, because she knowsThe 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 turbulenceOur thoughts were sweetened with a senseOf his benignant influence—“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
No splendid talents, which exciteLike music, songs, or floods of light,Were his; but, rather, all those bright,Calm qualities of soul which reapA 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.”
Araluen
—* Araluen: The poet’s daughter, who died in infancy.—
Take this rose, and very gently place it on the tender, deepMosses where our little darling, Araluen, lies asleep.Put the blossom close to baby—kneel with me, my love, and pray;We must leave the bird we’ve buried—say good-bye to her to-day.In the shadow of our trouble we must go to other lands,And the flowers we have fostered will be left to other hands:Other eyes will watch them growing—other feet will softly treadWhere two hearts are nearly breaking, where so many tears are shed.Bitter is the world we live in: life and love are mixed with pain;We will never see these daisies—never water them again.
Ah! the saddest thought in leaving baby in this bush aloneIs that we have not been able on her grave to place a stone:We have been too poor to do it; but, my darling, never mind—God is in the gracious heavens, and His sun and rain are kind:They will dress the spot with beauty, they will make the grasses grow:Many winds will lull our birdie, many songs will come and go.Here the blue-eyed Spring will linger, here the shining month will stay,Like a friend, by Araluen, when we two are far away;But beyond the wild, wide waters, we will tread another shore—We will never watch this blossom, never see it any more.
Girl, whose hand at God’s high altar in the dear, dead year I pressed,Lean your stricken head upon me—this is still your lover’s breast!She who sleeps was first and sweetest—none we have to take her place;Empty is the little cradle—absent is the little face.Other children may be given; but this rose beyond recall,But this garland of your girlhood, will be dearest of them all.None will ever, Araluen, nestle where you used to be,In my heart of hearts, you darling, when the world was new to me;We were young when you were with us, life and love were happy thingsTo your father and your mother ere the angels gave you wings.
You that sit and sob beside me—you, upon whose golden headMany rains of many sorrows have from day to day been shed;Who because your love was noble, faced with me the lot austereEver pressing with its hardship on the man of letters here—Let me feel that you are near me, lay your hand within mine own;You are all I have to live for, now that we are left alone.Three there were, but one has vanished. Sins of mine have made you weep;But forgive your baby’s father now that baby is asleep.Let us go, for night is falling; leave the darling with her flowers;Other hands will come and tend them—other friends in other hours.