The Death of Saul | Page 8

that mother gave.
Or, if in fervent faith she deemed it so,?The thought to joyless lives a pleasure brings,?And who shall tell, where doting fondness clings,?The loss which hearts bereaved can only know?
And who shall doubt that to such love is given,?Borne upward, clothed in perfume to the sky,?The pow'r to reach, in death's great mystery,?Lost hearts, and add a bliss to those of Heaven?
Other sad pilgrims came. A mother here?A duteous daughter mourns, whose days had been?A ceaseless blessing--an oasis green?On life's enfevered plain: a brooklet clear,
That ran the meadows of glad lives along,?Till, like a stream that meanders to the sea,?In the dark Ocean of Eternity?Lost was their source of laughter, light, and song.
And yonder, clothed in darksome silence, grieves?A loving daughter near a mother's tomb--?Down by the stunted wall in willow-gloom?And shadows thrown by sombre cypress leaves:
And as, in life, the waving kerchief speaks?The words of friends departing which the heart?Is all too full to utter e're we part?For ever, so the sorrowing daughter seeks
In thought one recollection more to wave?To one long dead; and asks in speechless woe?Primrose and snowdrop on the mound below?To bear love's messages beyond the grave!
And in the golden sunshine children come?With prattling tongue and winsome, rosy face--?Like blossoms flowering in a lonely place--?And lay their tributes o'er each narrow home
Where lies the helpless beacon of their lives?In darkness quencht--gone ere their infant thought?Could realise the loss which Death had wrought--?The stab the stern Destroying Angel gives.
And o'er each silent grave Love's tributes fall--?The primrose, cowslip, gentle daffodil--?The snow-drop, and the tender daisy--till?God's acre sleeps beneath a flowery pall.
And now the sun in all its glory came?And lit the world up with a light divine,?Casting fresh beauty o'er each sacred shrine:?Breathing on all things an inspiring flame.
As if the God of Light had bade it be,?In sweet reward for pious rite performed;?As if, with human love and fondness charmed,?The Lord had smiled with love's benignity.
For not to this old churchyard where I stand?Is audience of the dead, through flow'rs, confined?A nation's heart--a nation's love--combined,?Make it the sweet observance of the land.
In humble cot--in proud patrician halls,?The Floral Festival fills every breast;?And o'er the grass, where'er the loved ones rest,?The lowly flow'r with choice exotic falls.
And as they fall upon the sacred spot,?Sacred to every heart that strews them there,?They seem to sing in voices low and clear:?"Though gone for evermore--forgotten not!
"Though never more--still evermore--above?"Eternal will their deathless spirits reign.?"No more until above to meet again:?"Till then send up sweet messages of love."
So sang the blossoms with their odorous breath--?Or so in fancy sang they unto me;?"No more--yet evermore, eternally!?"Though lost, alas! remembered still in death!"
ELEGY
ON THE LATE CRAWSHAY BAILEY, ESQ.,
"THE IRON KING."
PRIZE POEM:
ABERGAVENNY EISTEDDFOD, 1874.
The programme opened with a competition for the best English Elegy on the late Crawshay Bailey, Esq., for which a prize of 10 pounds was given, and a bardic chair, value 5 pounds, by Mr. William Lewis. There were twelve competitors, and each composition was confined to a limit of 200 lines.
Sadly the sea, by Mynwy's rugged shore,?Moans for the dead in many a mournful strain.?A voice from hearts bereft cries "Come again;"?But wavelets whisper softly, "Never more!"
The restless winds take up the solemn cry,?As though--an age of sorrow in each breath--?The words, "O, come again," could call back Death?From the far-off, unseen Eternity.
"Our dwellings darkened when his life went out:?"We stand in cold eclipse, for gone the light?"Which made our cottage-homes so warm and bright;?"And shadows deepen o'er the world without.
"Come back--come back!" Upon the mournful wind?These words fall weirdly as they float along,?Melting the soul to tears: for lo! the song?Rises from hearts that seek but ne'er will find:
Save one more billow on the sea of graves;?One joyaunt voice the fewer in life's throng;?One hand the less to help the world along;?One Hero more 'mongst earth's departed Braves.
For who that in life's battle-field could fight?As he has fought, whose painless victories?Transcended war's heroic chivalries,?Could in his country's heart claim nobler height?
None may the niche of glory haplier grace,?None may the crown of greatness proudlier wear,?Than he upon whose tomb the silent tear?Falls slowly down from many a drooping face.
Faces whose hard and rugged outlines show?Life's daily struggle--O, how bravely fought!?Faces to which the only gladness brought?Came from the Friend who yonder lieth low.
Let us in mournful retrospect commune?O'er what that still cold heart and brain have won:?A hymn of life in lispings first begun,?Ending in harmony's most perfect tune.
As comes the sun from out the darkling-night,?And strikes, as did the patriarch of old,?Life's barren rocks, which flush with green and gold,?And pour out waters glad with living light,
So, crowned with blessings, in the far-off days,?Like Midas, Mynwy's monarch touched the earth,?Wrought golden plenty where once reigned a dearth,?And raised an empire he alone could raise.
No service his,