In Memory of John Fairfax

Because this man fulfilled his days,     Like one who walks with steadfast gaze     Averted from forbidden ways     With lures of fair, false flowerage deep,     Behold the Lord whose throne is dim     With fires of flaming seraphim     The Christ that suffered sent for him:     He giveth His beloved sleep.     Think not that souls whose deeds august     Put sin to shame and make men just     Become at last the helpless dust     That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep!     The higher life within us cries,     Like some fine spirit from the skies,     The Fathers blessing on us lies     He giveth His beloved sleep.     Not human sleep the fitful rest     With evil shapes of dreams distressed,     But perfect quiet, unexpressed     By any worldly word we keep.     The dim Hereafter framed in creeds     May not be this; but He who reads     Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds     He giveth His beloved sleep.     Be sure this hero who has passed     The human space the outer vast     Who worked in harness to the last,     Doth now a hallowed harvest reap.     Love sees his grave, nor turns away     The eyes of faith are like the day,     And grief has not a word to say     He giveth His beloved sleep.     That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws     A light, which puts to shame the rose,     Across his grave, because she knows     The son whose ashes it doth keep;     And, like far music, this is heard     Behold the man who never stirred,     By word of his, an angry word!     He giveth His beloved sleep.     He earned his place. Within his hands,     The power which counsels and commands,     And shapes the social life of lands,     Became a blessing pure and deep.     Through thirty years of turbulence     Our thoughts were sweetened with a sense     Of his benignant influence     He giveth His beloved sleep.     No splendid talents, which excite     Like music, songs, or floods of light,     Were his; but, rather, all those bright,     Calm qualities of soul which reap     A mute, but certain, fine respect,     Not only from a source elect,     But from the hearts of every sect     He giveth His beloved sleep.     He giveth His beloved rest!     The faithful soul that onward pressed,     Unswerving, from Lifes east to west,     By paths austere and passes steep,     Is past all toil; and, over Death,     With reverent hands and prayerful breath,     I plant this flower, alive with faith     He giveth His beloved sleep.