Dear Friend and honoured Master, art thou dead?
And shall I see no more thy reverend face,
Recall our older England's manlier grace?
Nor any more admire that noble head,
That brow as high as Shakespeare's, that grave eye,
Now soft with mirth, now fired with fantasy?
Nor hear again thy rugged, kindly speech
Illume the sunless deeps of thought, and teach
The Right thou lov'dst? nor breathe the eager air
Of thy lone eyrie with thee? nor behold
Thy bent, cloaked figure, dark against the gold
And purple of thy dear, secluded hill,
Pace with uncertain footsteps day by day
The much-loved round? nor in the failing light
Upon thy smooth lawns watch the summer night
Steal o'er the ghostly plains? nor mark the strain
Of thy blithe thrushes with thee? nor again
The enamoured, lonely nightingale complain?
Thy years were come to harvest—home-spent years
Of reverence from without, of love within.
A perfect life, health, riches, honours, fame—
All these were thine, no prize was left to win;
Scant sorrow, save that fine despondency
Which fans the smouldering genius into flame;
Only two brief experiences of tears—
The dear friend lost in youth, the son in age,
Bracing thy soul to bear whate'er should be.
Such lives Fate grants not often, nor for long,
And rarest to the suffering ranks of song.
Why should we mourn, save for our private pain
And friendship which shall never come again?
Our race can never lose thee, whose fair page,
Rich with the harvest of a soul inspired,
So many a weakling life and heart has fired.
Thou art not wholly gone, but livest yet
Till thy great England's sons their tongue forget!
Thy place is with the Immortals. Who shall gauge
Thy rank among thy peers of world-wide song?
Others, it may be, touched a note more strong,
Scaled loftier heights, or glowed with fiercer rage;
But who like thee could slay our modern Doubt?
Or soothe the sufferers with a tenderer heart?
Or deck gray legends with such knightly grace?
Or nerve Life's world-worn pilgrims for their part?
Who, since our English tongue first grew, has stirred
More souls to noble effort by his word?
More reverent who of Man, of God, of Truth?
More piteous of the sore-tried strength of Youth?
Others of grosser clay might stoop to fire
Ignoble lusts with prostituted lyre.
Thy chaste, white Muse, loathing the Pagan rout,
Would drive with stripes the goatish Satyr out
Thy love of Righteousness preserved thee pure;
Thy lucid genius scorned to lurk obscure,
And all thy jewelled art and native grace
Were consecrate to God and to the Race.
This day extinguishes a star as bright
As shone upon our dying century
Here, as in that great England over sea,
“Light after light goes out,” yet 'tis not night.
The peaceful moonbeams kissed him as he lay
At midnight, dying in the arms of Love.—
Thou couldst not wait the dawn of earthly Day.—
Farewell, blest soul, farewell! And if, indeed
Some care for things of earth may mount above,
As is our hope, enfranchised Spirit, plead
For this our England, which thou lov'dst so long,
And crownedst with thy diadem of song!
And shall I see no more thy reverend face,
Recall our older England's manlier grace?
Nor any more admire that noble head,
That brow as high as Shakespeare's, that grave eye,
Now soft with mirth, now fired with fantasy?
Nor hear again thy rugged, kindly speech
Illume the sunless deeps of thought, and teach
The Right thou lov'dst? nor breathe the eager air
Of thy lone eyrie with thee? nor behold
Thy bent, cloaked figure, dark against the gold
And purple of thy dear, secluded hill,
Pace with uncertain footsteps day by day
The much-loved round? nor in the failing light
Upon thy smooth lawns watch the summer night
Steal o'er the ghostly plains? nor mark the strain
Of thy blithe thrushes with thee? nor again
The enamoured, lonely nightingale complain?
Thy years were come to harvest—home-spent years
Of reverence from without, of love within.
A perfect life, health, riches, honours, fame—
All these were thine, no prize was left to win;
Scant sorrow, save that fine despondency
Which fans the smouldering genius into flame;
Only two brief experiences of tears—
The dear friend lost in youth, the son in age,
Bracing thy soul to bear whate'er should be.
Such lives Fate grants not often, nor for long,
And rarest to the suffering ranks of song.
Why should we mourn, save for our private pain
And friendship which shall never come again?
Our race can never lose thee, whose fair page,
Rich with the harvest of a soul inspired,
So many a weakling life and heart has fired.
Thou art not wholly gone, but livest yet
Till thy great England's sons their tongue forget!
Thy place is with the Immortals. Who shall gauge
Thy rank among thy peers of world-wide song?
Others, it may be, touched a note more strong,
Scaled loftier heights, or glowed with fiercer rage;
But who like thee could slay our modern Doubt?
Or soothe the sufferers with a tenderer heart?
Or deck gray legends with such knightly grace?
Or nerve Life's world-worn pilgrims for their part?
Who, since our English tongue first grew, has stirred
More souls to noble effort by his word?
More reverent who of Man, of God, of Truth?
More piteous of the sore-tried strength of Youth?
Others of grosser clay might stoop to fire
Ignoble lusts with prostituted lyre.
Thy chaste, white Muse, loathing the Pagan rout,
Would drive with stripes the goatish Satyr out
Thy love of Righteousness preserved thee pure;
Thy lucid genius scorned to lurk obscure,
And all thy jewelled art and native grace
Were consecrate to God and to the Race.
This day extinguishes a star as bright
As shone upon our dying century
Here, as in that great England over sea,
“Light after light goes out,” yet 'tis not night.
The peaceful moonbeams kissed him as he lay
At midnight, dying in the arms of Love.—
Thou couldst not wait the dawn of earthly Day.—
Farewell, blest soul, farewell! And if, indeed
Some care for things of earth may mount above,
As is our hope, enfranchised Spirit, plead
For this our England, which thou lov'dst so long,
And crownedst with thy diadem of song!