mer-look splendid,
And the beauty of woodlands and waterfalls blended;
And often I'll think of far-forested noises,
And the emphasis deep of grand sea-going voices,
And turn to Narrara the eyes of a lover,
When the sorrowful days of my singing are over.

In Memory of John Fairfax

Because this man fulfilled his days,
Like one who walks with steadfast gaze
Averted from forbidden ways
With lures of fair, false flowerage deep,
Behold the Lord whose throne is dim
With fires of flaming seraphim--
The Christ that suffered sent for him:
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

Think not that souls whose deeds august
Put sin to shame and make men just
Become at last the helpless dust
That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep!
The higher life within us cries,
Like some fine spirit from the skies,
"The Father's blessing on us lies--
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'"

Not human sleep--the fitful rest
With evil shapes of dreams distressed,--
But perfect quiet, unexpressed
By any worldly word we keep.
The dim Hereafter framed in creeds
May not be this; but He who reads
Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds--
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

Be sure this hero who has passed
The human space--the outer vast--
Who worked in harness to the last,
Doth now a hallowed harvest reap.
Love sees his grave, nor turns away--
The eyes of faith are like the day,
And grief has not a word to say--
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws
A light, which puts to shame the rose,
Across his grave, because she knows
The son whose ashes it doth keep;
And, like far music, _this_ is heard--
"Behold the man who never stirred,
By word of his, an angry word!--
'He giveth His beloved sleep.'"

He earned his place. Within his hands,
The power which counsels and commands,
And shapes the social life of lands,
Became a blessing pure and deep.
Through thirty years of turbulence
Our thoughts were sweetened with a sense
Of his benignant influence--
"He giveth His beloved sleep."

No splendid talents, which excite
Like music, songs, or floods of light,
Were his; but, rather, all those bright,
Calm qualities of soul which reap
A mute, but certain, fine respect,
Not only from a source elect,
But from the hearts of