By the Cliffs of the Sea

In a far-away glen of the hills,     Where the bird of the night is at rest,     Shut in from the thunder that fills     The fog-hidden caves of the west     In a sound of the leaf, and the lute     Of the wind on the quiet lagoon,     I stand, like a worshipper, mute     In the flow of a marvellous tune!     And the song that is sweet to my sense     Is, Nearer, my God, unto Thee;     But it carries me sorrowing hence,     To a grave by the cliffs of the sea.     So many have gone that I loved     So few of the fathers remain,     That where in old seasons I moved     I could never be happy again.     In the breaks of this beautiful psalm,     With its deep, its devotional tone,     And hints of ineffable calm,     I feel like a stranger, alone.     No wonder my eyes are so dim     Your trouble is heavy on me,     O widow and daughter of him     Who sleeps in the grave by the sea!     The years have been hard that have pressed     On a head full of premature grey,     Since Stenhouse went down to his rest,     And Harpur was taken away.     In the soft yellow evening-ends,     The wind of the water is faint     By the home of the last of my friends     The shrine of the father and saint.     The tenderness touching the grace     Of Ridley no more is for me;     And flowers have hidden the face     Of the brother who sleeps by the sea.     The vehement voice of the South     Is loud where the journalist lies;     But calm hath encompassed his mouth,     And sweet is the peace in his eyes.     Called hence by the Power who knows     When the work of a hero is done,     He turned at the message, and rose     With the harness of diligence on.     In the midst of magnificent toil,     He bowed at the holy decree;     And green is the grass on the soil     Of the grave by the cliffs of the sea.     I knew him, indeed; and I knew,     Having suffered so much in his day,     What a beautiful nature and true     In Bennett was hidden away.     In the folds of a shame without end,     When the lips of the scorner were curled,     I found in this brother a friend     The last that was left in the world.     Ah! under the surface austere     Compassion was native to thee;     I send from my solitude here     This rose for the grave by the sea.     To the high, the heroic intent     Of a life that was never at rest,     He held, with a courage unspent,     Through the worst of his days and the best.     Far back in the years that are dead     He knew of the bitterness cold     That saddens with silver the head     And makes a man suddenly old.     The dignity gracing his grief     Was ever a lesson to me;     He lies under blossom and leaf     In a grave by the cliffs of the sea.     Above him the wandering face     Of the moon is a loveliness now,     And anthems encompass the place     From lutes of the luminous bough.     The forelands are fiery with foam     Where often and often he roved;     He sleeps in the sight of the home     That he built by the waters he loved.     The wave is his fellow at night,     And the sun, shining over the lea,     Sheds out an unspeakable light     On this grave by the cliffs of the sea.