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Henry Kendall - Robert ParkesHenry Kendall - Robert Parkes
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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 Bethesda’s 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 father’s 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 father’s 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 mem’ries 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 Christian’s gentle touch; And, since the time when last we met,      You know I’ve suffered much. I feel that I have given pain      By certain words and deeds, But stricken here with Sorrow’s 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.
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