In Memory

Under the clear December sun,Perishing and cold,Sleep, Malise! who hast early wonLight of sacred gold.Sleep, be at rest: we still will keepDear love for thee lain down to sleep.

Youth, loving faces, holy toil,These death takes from thee:But of our love, none shall despoilThy fair soul set free.The labours of thy love are done:Thy labour's crown of love is won.

Sleep, Malise! While the winds blow yetOver thy quiet grave:We, labouring deathward, will forgetThee never: wherefore haveHope, and pure patience: we, too, comePresently to thee, in thine home.

Ah! fair face gone from sight,With all its lightOf eyes, that pierced the deepOf human night!Ah! fair face calm in sleep.

Ah! fair lips hushed in death!Now their glad breathBreathes not upon our airMusic, that saithLove only, and things fair.

Ah! lost brother! Ah! sweetStill hands and feet!May those feet haste to reach,Those hands to greet,Us, where love needs no speech.

Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying,Crying over Maes Garmon side!Cold is the wind for your white wings' flying:Cold and dim is our gray springtide.

But an hundred miles and more away,In the old, sweet city,Birds of spring are singing to the May,Their old, sweet ditty.

There he lies, whom I loved so well,And lies, whom I love so dearly:At thought of his youth, our buds will swell;Of his face, our sun shine clearly.

Sea-gulls, wheeling, swooping, crying,Crying over Maes Garmon side!Spirits of fire with him are flying,Souls of flame, to the Crucified.

Yet, far away from the ancient places,Ancient pleasures, and ancient days:He too thinks of our exiled faces,Far away from his whiter ways.

Sea-gulls, over Maes Garmon side,Flying and crying! flying and crying!You and all creatures, since Malise died,I have loved the more, both singing and sighing.

Glimmering lake, waters of Windermere!Winchester your name must be:Or is all an evening dream?Nay! Winton waters wander here,Delighting me,Down through that ancient bridge, that old-world stream.

I lean against the old, pillared balustrade:Now upon the red, worn mill,Now upon the rapid race,Poring: or where, within the shadeOf freshly chill,Low arches, wallflowers hide their homely grace.

Swiftly descend those waters of the weir:Sweeping past old cottages,Curving round, ah, happy tide!Into sight of towers most dear,Of ancient treesLoved all by heart: glad stream, who there may glide!

Farewell, whom I have loved so in gone years!Up the little climbing street,To the memoried Church I pass,Church of Saint John: whence loving tearsMade the way sweet,Saddest of ways, unto the holy grass.

Up the slow hill, people and holy CrossBore thee to the sleeping place,Malise! whom thy lovers weep.Spring lilies crown from the soft mossThy silent face,All peaceful, Malise! in thy perfect sleep.

Ah! far away, far by the watered vale,By the seaward-rolling hills,Lies he, by the gray-towered walls.Northern calm lake, wild northern dale,Gently fulfils,Each, its serene enchauntment: and night falls.

Windermere gleams: as would some shadowy spaceOut from willowed dream-world drawn.Under the pure silence, earthLooks up to heaven, with tranquil face:And patient dawn,Behind the purple hills, dreams toward the birth.

To think of thee, Malise! at Christmas time!The Glory of the world comes down on earth,Malise! at Christmas: but the Yule bells chimeOver thy perfect sleep: and though Christ's birthWake other men to melody of heart,Thou in their happy music hast no part.

Or dost thou wake awhile, to feel thy gloomIlluminated by the shepherds' light?To stretch out longing hands from thy still tomb,And think on days, that were: before that nightFell on thee, Malise? and the world as wellWas darkened over us, when that night fell!

Whenas I knew not clearly, how to think,Malise! about thee dead: God showed the way.Thine holy soul among soft fires can drinkThe dew of all the prayers, that I can pray.

Prayers for thy sake shall pierce thy prison gate;Prayers to the Mother of Misericord:Mary, the mighty, the immaculate;Mary, whose soul welcomed the appointed sword.

Malise! thy dear face from my wall looks down:The Crucifix above its beauty lies.Now, while I look and long, I see a crownBright on thy brow, and heaven within thine eyes,