Chapter 7

And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother, And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness, Prescribin' the right boys and girls to each other. And the sufferin' childer! Your eyes 'twould bewilder, To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin'-- Each of them fast on some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.

Thin, his doctherin' done, in a rollickin' run Wid the rod or the gun he's the foremost to figure; Be Jupiter Ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! And hark that view-holloa! 'Tis Mack in full follow On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'! Och, but you'd think 'twas ould Nimrod in pink, Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park wall and palin'.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion clarety. Here's to his health, Honour and wealth, Hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity!

Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way! All at once widout disparity! One more cheer for our docther dear, The king of his kind and the cream of all charity, Hip, hip, hooray!

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN OWEN

HARLECH CHOIRMASTER

Who is this they bear along the street In his coffin through the sunshine sweet? Who is this so many comrades crave, Turn by turn, to carry to the grave?

Who is this for whom the hillward track Glooms with mounting lines of mourners black? Till the Baptists' green old burial-ground Clasps them all within its quiet bound.

Here John Owen we must lay to rest, 'Tis for him our hearts are sore distressed; Since his sister wistfully he eyed, Bowed his head upon her breast and died.

Well and truly at his work he wrought; Every Harlech road to order brought; Then through winter evenings dark and long At the chapel gave his heart to song.

Till before his gesture of command-- Till before his hushing voice and hand-- Sweeter, fuller strains who could desire Than he charmed from out his Baptist choir.

Many a time the passer-by enchained By their rapture to its close remained, And the churches joyfully agreed Their united choirs his skill should lead.

So in Handel's choruses sublime He would train them for the Christmas time; Mould their measures for the concert hall, Roll their thunders round the Castle wall.

Loving husband, tender father, quick To console the suffering and sick-- Christ to follow was his constant aim, Christ's own deacon ere he bore the name.

Widowed wife and children fatherless, Stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress-- Sorrow swept them all beneath its wave As his coffin sank into the grave.

But his Pastor's fervent voice went forth, Delicately dwelling on his worth, Urging his example, till at last Heavenly comfort o'er our grief he cast.

For his lonely ones we bowed in prayer, Sighed one hymn, and left him lying there, Whispering: "Lord, Thy will be done to-day, Thou didst give him, Thou hast taken away."

SAINT CUTHBERT

When once a winter storm upon the shores of Fife Drave Cuthbert; in despair, one fearful comrade saith: "To land in such a storm is certain loss of life!" "Return," another cried, "by sea is equal death." Then Cuthbert, "Earth and sea against us both are set, But friends, look up, for Heaven lies open to us yet."

ALFRED THE GREAT

A MILLENARY MEMORIAL

"In my life I have striven to live so worthily that at my death I may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me."

Thus Alfred spake, whose days were beads of prayer Upon the rosary of his royal time, Who let "I do" wait not upon "I dare," Yet both with duty kept in golden chime, Who, great in victory, greater in defeat, Greatest in strenuous peace, still suffering, planned From Ashdown's field to Athelney's lone retreat Upward for aye to lift his little land. Therefore the seed of his most fruitful sowing, A thousand years gone by, on earth and sea, From slender strength to stately empire growing Hath given our isle great continents in fee. For which on Alfred's death-day each true heart Goes out in praise of his immortal part.

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON

Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest breath Thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell, Welcoming with thy whispered "All is well!" The awful aspect of the Angel Death. As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun The heat and burthen of the fiery day, Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay, And wearing meekly honours stoutly won. Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye Erin demanded from her bards of old, And, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold Has waked once more her high heroic lay. What shoulders now shall match the mighty fold Of Ossian's mantle? Thou hast passed away.

"MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY"

(On the home-coming of the London Regiments after the Boer War)

London Town, hear a ditty, While we crown our comrades true: "Men, not walls, make a City;" Ill befalls when men are few,--

Ill indeed when from his duty Into greed the burgess falls, Every hand on bribe and booty-- How shall stand that City's walls?

Never yet upon thine annals Hath been writ such a shame; Never down such crooked channels, London Town, thy commerce came.

On the poor no tyrant burden, Debt secure and sacred trust, Honest gain and generous guerdon, These remain thy record just.

Therefore still through all thy story Loyal will thy train-bands led Forth to feats of patriot glory, Back through streets with bays o'erspread.

Therefore when the trumpet's warning Out again for battle rang, As of old all peril scorning, Forth thy bold young burghers sprang;

Faced the fight, endured the prison, Through the night of doubt and gloom, Till the Empire's star new risen Chased afar the clouds of doom.

Therefore, when their ranks came marching, Home again with flashing feet, Under bays of triumph arching City ways and City Street;

London, lift to God thanksgiving For His Gift that passes all-- For thy heroes, dead and living, Who have made thy City Wall.

FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER

(June 13, 1916)

A sheet of foam is our great Soldier's shroud Beside the desolate Orkney's groaning caves; And we are desolate and groan aloud To know his body wandering with the waves Who when the thunder-cloud of battle hate Broke o'er us, through it towered, the while he bore Upon his Titan shoulders a world weight Of doubt and danger none had brooked before. For while incredulous friend and foe denied him Such possible prowess, Honour's blast he blew; And lo! as if from out the earth beside him, Army on army into order grew; Till need at last was none for our retreating, And back to Belgium and the front of France We bore, firm gathered for our foe's defeating Against the sounding of the Great Advance.

Few were his friends, yet closely round him clustered, But from five million Britons, who at his call Came uncompelled and round him sternly mustered, The sighs escape, the silent teardrops fall.

And not alone the Motherland is weeping Her great dead Captain but, The Seven Seas o'er, Daughter Dominions sorrow's watch are keeping, For he was theirs as her's in peace and war.

Yea, strong sage Botha, and that stern Cape Raider Whom first he fought then bound with friendship's bond-- Each now our own victorious Empire aider-- Lament his loss the sounding deeps beyond. And India mourns her mightiest Soldier Warden, Egypt the Sirdar who her desert through

Laid iron lines of vengeance for our Gordon Till on the Madhi he swept, and struck and slew. And France, for whom he fought a youthful gallant, From whose proud breast he drew Fashoda's thorn-- France who with England shared his searching talent, France like his second mother stands forlorn.

* * * * *

A man of men was he, the steadfast glances Of whose steel-grey, indomitable eyes So pierced the mind, behind all countenances, Crushed were the sophist's arts, the coward's lies. A man of men but in his greatness lonely-- Undaunted in defeat, in conquest calm, For God and Country living and dying only, And winner therefore of the deathless palm.

* * * * *

A truce to tears then. Though his body hath No rest in English earth, his shining soul Still leads his armies up the arduous path He paved for them forthright to Glory's goal.

And we the men and women who remain, Let us to be his other Army burn With such pure fires of sacrificial pain As shall reward our warriors' return.

But now a sudden heavy silence falls On all our streets, half-mast the standard hangs-- The hearseless funeral passes to St. Paul's, And out of every steeple the death-bell clangs.

Now sorrowing King and Queen, as midday booms, The hushed Fane enter, while o'er mourners black, Grey soldier, choral white, quick gleams and glooms Of sun and shadow darkle and sparkle back. The prayers of priest and people to heaven's gate win And a choir as of angels welcoming thither our chief-- Till a thunder of drums the mighty Dead March beats in And the Last Post lingers, lingers and dies on our grief.

INSCRIPTION FOR A ROLL OF HONOUR IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL

Since to die nobly is Life's act supreme, And since our best and dearest thus have died, Across our cloud of grief a solemn gleam Of joy has struck, and all our tears are dried.

For these men to keep pure their country's fame Against great odds fell fighting to the death, God give us grace who here bear on their name To grow more like them with each proud-drawn breath.

AN EPITAPH

On an Irish Cross in memory of Charles Graves, Bishop of Limerick

To God his steadfast soul, his starry mind To Science, a gracious heart to kin and kind, He living gave. Therefore let each fair bloom Of Faith and Hope breathe balsam o'er his tomb.

AN INTERCESSIONAL ANSWERED

(June 26, 1902)

We thought to speed our earthly King Triumphant on his way Unto his solemn Sacreing Before Thy throne to-day; His royal robes were wrought, prepared His sceptre, orb and crown, And all earth's Princes here repaired To heighten his renown; When, hurtling out of bluest Heaven, Thy bolt upon us fell; Our head is pierced, our heart is riven, Struck dumb the Minster bell. Yet flags still flutter far and wide; The league-long garlands glow, Still London wears her gala pride Above a breast of woe. Lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers Their joyful use forget? Nay, on this stricken realm of ours Have Thou compassion yet.

Long years ago our Edward lay Thus fighting for his breath, Yet to such prayers as now we pray Thou gavest him back from death. Then o'er the tempest of his pain, His cry of perishing thrill, Let Thy right arm go forth again, Thy saving "Peace! be still!" Until to all his strength restored Thy Spirit lead Him down, In solemn state, Almighty Lord, To take from Thee his crown.

VI. PERSONAL AND VARIOUS

LET THERE BE JOY!

(A Christmas carol from the Scotch Gaelic)

This is now the blessed morn, When was born the Virgin's Son, Who from heights of glorious worth, Unto earth His way has won; All the heav'ns grow bright to greet Him, Forth to meet Him, ev'ry one!

All hail! let there be joy! All hail! let there be joy!

Mountains praise, with purple splendour, Plains, with tender tints, the morn; Shout, ye waves, with prophesying Voices crying, "Christ is born! Christ, the Son of heav'n's High King, Therefore sing no more forlorn!"

All hail! let there be joy! All hail! let there be joy!

A HOLIDAY HYMN

He, unto whom the Heavenly Father Hath in His works Himself revealed, Sees with rapt eyes the glory gather O'er hill and forest, flood and field.

He, when the torrent laughs in thunder, Larks soar exulting in the blue, Thrills with the waterfall's glad wonder, Far up to heaven goes singing too;

Wanders, a child among the daisies; Ponders, a poet, all things fair; Wreathes with the rose of dawn his praises, Weaves with eve's passion-flowers his prayer;

Full sure that He who reared the mountain, Made smooth the valley, plumed the height, Holds in clear air the lark and fountain-- Shall yet uplift him into light.

SUMMER MORNING'S WALK

'Tis scarcely four by the village clock, The dew is heavy, the air is cool-- A mist goes up from the glassy pool, Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock: No sound is heard but the magpie's mock.

Very low is the sun in the sky, It needeth no eagle now to regard him. Is there not one lark left to reward him With the shivering joy of his long, sweet cry, For sad he seemeth, I know not why.

Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm There glides and gazes a sadder face; Spectre Queen of a vanished race-- 'Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film, And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.

These are but selfish fancies, I know, Framed to solace a secret grief-- Look again--scorning such false relief-- Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe-- Look again! whence do these fancies flow?

What is the moon but a lamp of fire That God shall relume in His season? the Sun, Like a giant, rejoices his race to run With flaming feet that never tire On the azure path of the starry choir.

The lark has sung ere I left my bed: And hark! far aloft from those ladders of light Many songs, not one only, the morn delight. Then, sad heart, dream not that Nature is dead, But seek from her strength and comfort instead.

SNOW-STAINS

The snow had fallen and fallen from heaven, Unnoticed in the night, As o'er the sleeping sons of God Floated the manna white; And still, though small flowers crystalline Blanched all the earth beneath, Angels with busy hands above Renewed the airy wreath; When, white amid the falling flakes, And fairer far than they, Beside her wintry casement hoar A dying woman lay. "More pure than yonder virgin snow From God comes gently down, I left my happy country home," She sighed, "to seek the town, More foul than yonder drift shall turn, Before the sun is high, Downtrodden and defiled of men, More foul," she wept, "am I."

"Yet, as in midday might confessed, Thy good sun's face of fire Draws the chaste spirit of the snow To meet him from the mire, Lord, from this leprous life in death Lift me, Thy Magdalene, That rapt into Redeeming Light I may once more be clean."

REMEMBRANCE

(To music)

The fairest blooming flower Before the sun must fade; Each leaf that lights the bower Must fall at last decayed! Like these we too must wither, Like these in earth lie low, None answering whence or whither We come, alas! or go.

None answering thee? thou sayest, Nay, mourner, from thy heart, If but in faith thou prayest, The Voice Divine shall start; "I gave and I have taken, If thou wouldst comfort win To cheer thy life forsaken, I knock, O, let me in!

"Thy loved ones have but folden Their earthly garments by, And through Heaven's gateway golden Gone gladly up on high. O, if thou wouldst be worthy To share their joy anon, Cast off, cast off the earthy, And put the heavenly on!"

SANDS OF GOLD

Hope gave into my trembling hands An hour-glass running golden sands, And Love's immortal joys and pains I measured by its glancing grains. But Evil Fortune swooped, alas! Remorseless on the magic glass, And shivered into idle dust The radiant record of my trust.

Long I mated with Despair And craved for Death with ceaseless prayer; Till unto my sick-bed side There stole a Presence angel-eyed.

"If thou wouldst heal thee of thy wound," Her voice to heavenly harps attuned Bespake me, "Let the sovran tide Within this glass thy future guide." Therewith she gave into my hands No hour-glass running golden sands, Only a horologe forlorn Set against a cross of thorn, And cold and stern the current seemed That through its clouded crystal gleamed.

"Immortal one," I cried, "make plain This cure of my consuming pain. Open my eyes to understand, And sift the secrets of this sand, And measure by its joyless grains What yet of life to me remains."

"The sand," she said, "that glimmers grey Within this glass, but yesterday Was dust at Dives' bolted door Shaken by God's suffering poor; Then by blasts of heaven upblown Before the Judge upon His throne To swell the ever-gathering cloud Of witnesses against the proud-- The dust of throats that knew no slaking, The dust of brows for ever aching-- Dust unto dust with life's last breath Sighed into the urn of Death."

With tears I took that cross of thorn, With tears that horologe forlorn. And all my moments by its dust I measure now with prayerful trust, And though my courage oft turns weak, Fresh comfort from that cross I seek; In wistful hope I yet may wake To find the thorn in blossom break, And from life's shivered glass behold My being's sands ebb forth in gold.

THE MOURNER

When tears, when heavy tears of sharpest sorrow Bathe the lone pillow of the mourner's bed, Whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking morrow For his beloved one dead, If all be not in vain, his passionate prayer Shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue, To fall transfigured back on his despair In drops of Heavenly dew;

Nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing Of incense from his soul's hushed altar start, And still return to rise with rich increasing, A well-spring from his heart; Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing Through other lives shall still run radiant on, Till they, too, reap in joy who wept in sowing, Long after he is gone.

DE PROFUNDIS

Out of the darkness I call; I stretch forth my hands unto Thee. Loose these fetters that foully enthral; To their lock Thou alone hast the key. Low at Thy footstool I fall, Forgive and Thy servant is free!

Folly took hold of my time, On pleasure I perched, to my woe; I was snared in The Evil One's lime And now all his promptings I know. Crimson as blood is my crime. Yet Thou canst wash whiter than snow.

Heaven overhead is one frown; About me the black waters rave; To the deep I go dreadfully down; O pluck my feet out of the grave; Lord! I am sinking, I drown, O save, for Thou only canst save.

IMMORTAL HOPE

Summer hath too short a date Autumn enters, ah! how soon, Scattering with scornful hate All the flowers of June. Nay say not so, Nothing here below But dies To rise Anew with rarer glow.

Now, no skylarks singing soar Sunward, now, beneath the moon Love's own nightingale no more Lifts her magic tune! Nay, say not so, But awhile they go; Their strain Again All heaven shall overflow.

WE HAD A CHILD

We had a child, a little Fairy Prince, Let loose from Elfland for our heart's delight; Ah! was it yesterday or four years since He beamed upon our sight? Four years--and yet it seems but yesterday Since the blue wonder of his baby eyes. Beneath their ebon-fringèd canopies, Subdued us to his sway.

Three years--and yet but yestermorn it seems Since first upon his feet he swaying stood, Buoyed bravely up by memory's magic dreams Of elfin hardihood. He stood, the while that long-forgotten lore Lit all his lovely face with frolic glee; And then--O marvel! to his mother's knee Walked the wide nursery floor.

Two years gone by--ah, no! but yesterday Our bright-eyed nursling, swift as we could teach, Forsook the low soft croonings of the fay For broken human speech-- Broken, yet to our ears divinelier broken Than sweetest snatches from Heaven's mounting bird-- More eloquent than the poet's passionate word Supremely sung or spoken.

But O, our darling in his joyful dance Tottered death-pale beneath the withering north, Into a kinder clime, most blessed chance, We caught him swiftly forth, And there he bloomed again, our fairy boy, Two year-long Aprils through in sun and shower, Wing-footed Mercury of each merry hour, The Genius of our joy.

And evermore we shared his shifting mood Of hide-and-seek with April joy and sorrow, Till not one shadow of solicitude Remained to mar our morrow; Yea, every fear had flown, lest, welladay! The headlong heats or winter's piercing power Should light afresh upon our radiant flower And wither him away.

* * * * *

We had a child, a little fairy child, He kissed us on the lips but yesternight, Yet when he wakened his blue eyes were wild With fevered light. We had a child--what countless ages since, Did he go forth from us with wildered brain, Will he come back and kiss us once again-- Our little Fairy Prince?

BY THE BEDSIDE OF A SICK CHILD

O Thou by whose eternal plan Ages arise and roll, Who in Thine image madest man To search him to the soul, If e'er in token of the Cross, With infant arms outspread, Thou sawest Thy Beloved toss In anguish on His bed; Or heardest in the childish cry That pierced the cottage room The voice of Christ in agony Breaking from Calvary's gloom, Give ear! and from Thy Throne above With eyes of mercy mild, Look down, of Thine immortal love, Upon our suffering child.

Though Earth's physicians all in vain Have urged their utmost skill, Yet to our prayers O make it plain That Thou canst succour still; Yea! through the midnight watches drear, And all the weary day, O be Thy Good Physician near Our stricken one to stay; That evermore as we succeed In service at his side, Each office of our darling's need His heavenly hands may guide; Till o'er his tempest bed of pain, His cry of perishing thrill The Saviour's arm go forth again, The Saviour's "Peace! be still."

Too well, O Lord, too well we know How oft upon Thy way Our feet have followed faint and slow, How often turned astray For fleeting pleasures to forsake Thy path of heavenly prayer; We have deserved that Thou shouldst take Our children from our care. Yet, O Good Shepherd, lead us back, Our lamb upon Thy breast, Safely along the narrow track, Across the dangerous crest; Until our aching eyes rejoice At Salem's shining walls, And to our thirsting souls a Voice Of Living Waters calls.

HE HAS COME BACK

Without the wintry sky is overcast, The floods descend, fierce hail and rushing rain, Whilst ever and anon the angry blast Clutches the casement-pane. Within our darling beats an angrier air With piteous outstretched arms and tossing head, Whilst we, bowed low beside his labouring bed, Pour all our hearts in prayer.