In Memoriam : Marcus Clarke

The night winds sob on mountains drear, Where gleams by fits the wint'ry star; And in the wild dumb woods I hear A moaning harbor bar.

The branch and leaf are very still, But now the great grave dark has grown, The torrent in the harsh sea-hill Sends forth a deeper tone.

Some sad, faint voice is far above, And many things I dream, it saith, Of home made beautiful by Love And sanctified by Death.

I cannot catch its perfect phrase; But, ah, the touching words to me Bring back the lights of other days— The friends that used to be.

Here sitting by a dying flame, I cannot choose but think with grief Of Harpur, whose unhappy name Is as an autumn leaf.

And domed by purer breadths of blue Afar from folds of forest dark, I see the eyes that once I knew — The eyes of Marcus Clarke.

Their clear, bright beauty shines a space; But sunny dreams in shadows end, The sods have hid the faded face Of my heroic friend.

He sleeps where winds of evening pass, Where water songs are soft and low — Upon his grave the tender grass Has not had time to grow.

Few knew the cross he had to bear, And moan beneath from day to day. His were the bitter hours that wear The human heart away.

The laurels in the pit were won: He had to take the lot austere That ever seems to wait upon The man of letters here.

His soul was self-withdrawn. He made A secret of the bitter life Of struggle in inclement shade For helpless child and wife.

He toiled for love unwatched, unseen, And fought his troubles band by band, Till, like a friend of gentle mien, Death took him by the hand.

He rests in peace! No grasping thief Of hope and health can steal away The beauty of the flower and leaf Upon his tomb to-day.

The fragrant woodwinds sing above Where gleams the grace of willow fair; And often kneels a mournful love To plant a blossom there.

So let him sleep, whose life was hard; And may they place beyond the wave This tender rose of my regard Upon his tranquil grave.