Thee he approached without distrust or dread—­
  Beheld thee throned, an awful queen, above—­
Climbed to thy lap and merely laid his head
  Against thy warm wild heart of mother-love.

He heard that vast heart beating—­thou didst press
  Thy child so close, and lov’dst him unaware. 
Thy beauty gladdened him; yet he scarce less
  Had loved thee, had he never found thee fair!

For thou wast not as legendary lands
  To which with curious eyes and ears we roam. 
Nor wast thou as a fane mid solemn sands,
  Where palmers halt at evening.  Thou wast home.

And here, at home, still bides he; but he sleeps;
  Not to be wakened even at thy word;
Though we, vague dreamers, dream he somewhere keeps
  An ear still open to thy voice still heard,—­

Thy voice, as heretofore, about him blown,
  For ever blown about his silence now;
Thy voice, though deeper, yet so like his own
  That almost, when he sang, we deemed ’twas thou!

VII

Behind Helm Crag and Silver Howe the sheen
  Of the retreating day is less and less. 
Soon will the lordlier summits, here unseen,
  Gather the night about their nakedness.

The half-heard bleat of sheep comes from the hill,
  Faint sounds of childish play are in the air. 
The river murmurs past.  All else is still. 
  The very graves seem stiller than they were.

Afar though nation be on nation hurled,
  And life with toil and ancient pain depressed,
Here one may scarce believe the whole wide world
  Is not at peace, and all man’s heart at rest.

Rest! ’twas the gift he gave; and peace! the shade
  He spread, for spirits fevered with the sun. 
To him his bounties are come back—­here laid
  In rest, in peace, his labour nobly done.

LACHRYMAE MUSARUM
AND
OTHER POEMS

TO
RICHARD HOLT HUTTON
AND
MEREDITH TOWNSEND

WITH GRATITUDE

LACHRYMAE MUSARUM

(6TH OCTOBER 1892)

Low, like another’s, lies the laurelled head: 
The life that seemed a perfect song is o’er: 
Carry the last great bard to his last bed. 
Land that he loved, thy noblest voice is mute. 
Land that he loved, that loved him! nevermore
Meadow of thine, smooth lawn or wild sea-shore,
Gardens of odorous bloom and tremulous fruit,
Or woodlands old, like Druid couches spread,
The master’s feet shall tread. 
Death’s little rift hath rent the faultless lute: 
The singer of undying songs is dead.

Lo, in this season pensive-hued and grave,
While fades and falls the doomed, reluctant leaf
From withered Earth’s fantastic coronal,
With wandering sighs of forest and of wave
Mingles the murmur of a people’s grief
For him whose leaf shall fade not, neither fall. 
He hath fared forth, beyond these suns and showers. 
For us, the autumn glow, the autumn flame,
And soon the winter silence shall be ours: 
Him the eternal spring of fadeless fame
Crowns with no mortal flowers.