James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
April 19At His Grave
By Alfred Austin (18351913)
L
Here at his grave that still is strown
With crumbling flower and wreath;
The laughing rivulet leaps and falls,
The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls,
And he lies hushed beneath.
And every lowlier flower that blows,
His new-made couch is dressed;
Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild,
Gathered by monarch, peasant, child,
A nation’s grief attest.
That hither came when round his shroud
Pious farewells were said.
In the famed city that he saved,
By minaret crowned, by billow laved,
I heard that he was dead.
No greeting get, no greeting tend,
Who never came before
Unto presence, but I took,
From word or gesture, tone or look,
Some wisdom from his door.
And, though a suppliant at the gate,
No sound my ears rejoice?
Listen! Yes, even as I stand,
I feel the pressure of his hand,
The comfort of his voice.
That death can make a great life less,
Or end the help it gave!
Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may wane,
But his well-ripened deeds remain,
Untouched, above his grave.
Silenced are the opprobrious winds
Whene’er the sun goes down;
And free henceforth from noonday noise,
He at a tranquil height enjoys
The starlight of renown.
Than sterile grief, than formless ache,
Or vaguely uttered vow;
Death hath bestowed what life withheld
And he round whom detraction swelled
Hath peace with honour now.
The falsehood coined in factious haunt,
These loving gifts reprove.
They never were but thwarted sound
Of ebbing waves that bluster round
A rock that will not move.
Hushed is the gibe and shamed the scoff,
Repressed the envious gird;
Since death, the looking-glass of life,
Cleared of the misty breath of strife,
Reflects his face unblurred.
Men turn the leaf and scan the page,
And note, with smart of loss,
How wit to wisdom did mature,
How duty burned ambition pure,
And purged away the dross.
Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends,
So that when age steals nigh,
How few find any worthier aim
Than to protract a flickering flame,
Whose oil hath long run dry!
With flowers that tell of English skies
And mind of English air,
A grateful sovereign decks his bed,
And hither long with pilgrim tread
Will English feet repair.
We seek the glance, the touch, the tone;
His home is nigh,—but there,
See from the hearth his figure fled,
The pen unraised, the page unread,
Untenanted the chair!
A fresh green canopy of shade,
Vainly the peacocks stray;
While Carlo, with despondent gait,
Wonders how long affairs of State
Will keep his lord away.
Back to the churchyard let me wend,
And, by the posied mound,
Lingering where late stood worthier feet,
Wish that some voice, more strong, more sweet,
A loftier dirge would sound.
Votive to him life’s budding powers,
Such as they were, I gave—
He not rejecting, so I may
Perhaps these poor faint spices lay,
Unchidden, on his grave!