III

If light of life outlive the set of sun
  That men call death and end of all things, then
  How should not that which life held best for men
And proved most precious, though it seem undone
By force of death and woful victory won,
  Be first and surest of revival, when
  Death shall bow down to life arisen again? 
So shall the soul seen be the self-same one
That looked and spake with even such lips and eyes
As love shall doubt not then to recognise,
  And all bright thoughts and smiles of all time past
Revive, transfigured, but in spirit and sense
None other than we knew, for evidence
  That love’s last mortal word was not his last.

A STUDY FROM MEMORY

If that be yet a living soul which here
  Seemed brighter for the growth of numbered springs
  And clothed by Time and Pain with goodlier things
Each year it saw fulfilled a fresh fleet year,
Death can have changed not aught that made it dear;
  Half humorous goodness, grave-eyed mirth on wings
  Bright-balanced, blither-voiced than quiring strings;
Most radiant patience, crowned with conquering cheer;
A spirit inviolable that smiled and sang
  By might of nature and heroic need
  More sweet and strong than loftiest dream or deed;
A song that shone, a light whence music rang
  High as the sunniest heights of kindliest thought;
  All these must be, or all she was be nought.

TO DR. JOHN BROWN

Beyond the north wind lay the land of old
  Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, clothed and fed
  With joy’s bright raiment and with love’s sweet bread,
The whitest flock of earth’s maternal fold. 
None there might wear about his brows enrolled
  A light of lovelier fame than rings your head,
  Whose lovesome love of children and the dead
All men give thanks for:  I far off behold
A dear dead hand that links us, and a light
The blithest and benignest of the night,
  The night of death’s sweet sleep, wherein may be
A star to show your spirit in present sight
  Some happier island in the Elysian sea
  Where Rab may lick the hand of Marjorie.

March 1882.

TO WILLIAM BELL SCOTT

The larks are loud above our leagues of whin
  Now the sun’s perfume fills their glorious gold
  With odour like the colour:  all the wold
Is only light and song and wind wherein
These twain are blent in one with shining din. 
  And now your gift, a giver’s kingly-souled,
  Dear old fast friend whose honours grow not old,
Bids memory’s note as loud and sweet begin. 
Though all but we from life be now gone forth
Of that bright household in our joyous north
Where I, scarce clear of boyhood just at end,
  First met your hand; yet under life’s clear dome,
Now seventy strenuous years have crowned my friend,
  Shines no less bright his full-sheaved harvest-home.