A. C. Steele

NO more for him the morning winds

Will blow fleet shadows o’er the downs,

No more for him the sunset-red

Will deepen o’er the Western towns.

His patient hands no more may wrest

Scant profit from the barren soil,

No more his tired feet may tread

The paths that marked his daily toil.

The horse his kindly voice controlled

(By loving tendance made his own)

Will chafe beneath a stranger’s touch

And wonder at a stranger’s tone.

Labour is prayer and God is love,

And when he sought his daily task

Be sure that in the eastern light

He, silent, gained what others ask.

Be sure that in the Western sun

His evening prayers were mutely said,

And when the long night came at last

Faith comforted his dying bed.

Confident as a child that turns,

When tired, on a lonely road,

To nestle on his father’s arm,

Feeling in love a sure abode,

So dwelled he in his Maker’s care,

Resigned no longer here to roam,

And when he bade his friend farewell

Said: ‘Matey, I am going Home.’

He loved his wife, he reared his brood,

A quiet, steadfast Englishman,

A loyal worker firm in faith,—

Better the record ye who can!

And when for us the wild down winds

Blend dully with the wistful foam,

May we no greater trouble feel

Than ‘Matey, I am going Home.’