Robert Parkes

By Henry Kendall

High travelling winds by royal hill Their awful anthem sing, And songs exalted flow and fill The caverns of the spring. To-night across a wild wet plain A shadow sobs and strays; The trees are whispering in the rain Of long departed days. I cannot say what forest saith Its words are strange to me: I only know that in its breath Are tones that used to be. Yea, in these deep dim solitudes I hear a sound I know The voice that lived in Penrith woods Twelve weary years ago. And while the hymn of other years Is on a listening land, The Angel of the Past appears And leads me by the hand; And takes me over moaning wave, And tracts of sleepless change, To set me by a lonely grave Within a lonely range. The halo of the beautiful Is round the quiet spot; The grass is deep and green and cool, Where sound of life is not. Here in this lovely lap of bloom, The grace of glen and glade, That tender days and nights illume, My gentle friend was laid. I do not mark the shell that lies Beneath the touching flowers; I only see the radiant eyes Of other scenes and hours. I only turn, by grief inspired, Like some forsaken thing, To look upon a life retired As hushed Bethesdas spring. The glory of unblemished days Is on the silent mound The light of years, too pure for praise; I kneel on holy ground! Here is the clay of one whose mind Was fairer than the dew, The sweetest nature of his kind I haply ever knew. This Christian, walking on the white Clear paths apart from strife, Kept far from all the heat and light That fills his fathers life. The clamour and exceeding flame Were never in his days: A higher object was his aim Than thrones of shine and praise. Ah! like an English April psalm, That floats by sea and strand, He passed away into the calm Of the Eternal Land. The chair he filled is set aside Upon his fathers floor; In morning hours, at eventide, His step is heard no more. No more his face the forest knows; His voice is of the past; But from his life of beauty flows A radiance that will last. Yea, from the hours that heard his speech High shining memries give That fine example which will teach Our children how to live. Here, kneeling in the body, far From grave of flower and dew, My friend beyond the path of star, I say these words to you. Though you were as a fleeting flame Across my road austere, The memory of your face became A thing for ever dear. I never have forgotten yet The Christians gentle touch; And, since the time when last we met, You know Ive suffered much. I feel that I have given pain By certain words and deeds, But stricken here with Sorrows rain, My contrite spirit bleeds. For your sole sake I rue the blow, But this assurance send: I smote, in noon, the public foe, But not the private friend. I know that once I wronged your sire, But since that awful day My soul has passed through blood and fire, My head is very grey. Here let me pause! From years like yours There ever flows and thrives The splendid blessing which endures Beyond our little lives. From lonely lands across the wave Is sent to-night by me This rose of reverence for the grave Beside the mountain lea.