Masked in the beauty of the May-dawn's birth,
Death came and kissed the brow still nobly fair,
And hushed that heart of youth for which the earth
Still kept its morning air.
Long time initiate in her lovely lore,
Now is he one with Nature's woods and streams
Whereof, a Paradisal robe, he wore
The visionary gleams.
Among her solitudes he moved apart;
The mystery of her clouds and star-sown skies,
Touched by the fusing magic of his art,
Shone clear for other eyes.
When from his lips immortal music broke,
It was the myriad voice of vale and hill;
"The lark ascending" poured a song that woke
An echo sweeter still.
Yet most we mourn his loss as one who gave
The gift of laughter and the boon of tears,
Interpreter of life, its gay and grave,
Its human hopes and fears.
Seer of the soul of things, inspired to know
Man's heart and woman's, over all he threw
The spell of fancy's iridescent glow,
The sheen of sunlit dew.
And of the fellowship of that great Age
For whose return our eyes have waited long,
None left so rich a twofold heritage
Of high romance and song.
We knew him, fronted like the Olympian gods,
Large in his loyalty to land and friend,
Fearless to fight alone with Fortune's odds,
Fearless to face the end.
And he is dead. And at the parting sign
We speak, too late, the love he little guessed,
And bid him in the nation's heart for shrine
Take his eternal rest.
SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
May 26, 1909.