In Memoriam - Alice Fane Gunn Stenhouse

The grand, authentic songs that roll     Across grey widths of wild-faced sea,     The lordly anthems of the Pole,     Are loud upon the lea.     Yea, deep and full the South Wind sings     The mighty symphonies that make     A thunder at the mountain springs     A whiteness on the lake.     And where the hermit hornet hums,     When Summer fires his wings with gold,     The hollow voice of August comes,     Across the rain and cold.     Now on the misty mountain tops,     Where gleams the crag and glares the fell,     Wild Winter, like one hunted, stops     And shouts a fierce farewell.     Keen fitful gusts shoot past the shore     And hiss by moor and moody mere     The heralds bleak that come before     The turning of the year.     A sobbing spirit wanders where     By fits and starts the wild-fire shines;     Like one who walks in deep despair,     With Death amongst the pines.     And ah! the fine, majestic grief     Which fills the heart of forests lone,     And makes a lute of limb and leaf     Is human in its tone.     Too human for the thought to slip     How every song that sorrow sings     Betrays the broad relationship     Of all created things.     Mans mournful speech, the wail of tree,     The words the winds and waters say,     Make up that general elegy,     Whose burden is decay.     To-night my soul looks back and sees,     Across wind-broken wastes of wave,     A widow on her bended knees     Beside a new-made grave.     A sufferer with a touching face     By love and grief made beautiful;     Whose rapt religion lights the place     Where death holds awful rule.     The fair, tired soul whose twofold grief     For child and father lends a tone     Of pathos to the pallid leaf     That sighs above the stone.     The large beloved heart whereon     She used to lean, lies still and cold,     Where, like a seraph, shines the sun     On flowerful green and gold.     I knew him well the grand, the sweet,     Pure nature past all human praise;     The dear Gamaliel at whose feet     I sat in other days.     He, glorified by god-like lore,     First showed my soul Lifes highest aim;     When, like one winged, I breathed before     The years of sin and shame.     God called him Home. And, in the calm     Beyond our best possessions priced,     He passed, as floats a faultless psalm,     To his fair Father, Christ.     But left as solace for the hours     Of sorrow and the loss thereof;     A sister of the birds and flowers,     The daughter of his love.     She, like a stray sweet seraph, shed     A healing spirit, that flamed and flowed     As if about her bright young head     A crown of saintship glowed.     Suppressing, with sublime self-slight,     The awful face of that distress     Which fell upon her youth like blight,     She shone like happiness.     And, in the home so sanctified     By death in its most noble guise,     She kissed the lips of love, and dried     The tears in sorrows eyes.     And helped the widowed heart to lean,     So broken up with human cares,     On one who must be felt and seen     By such pure souls as hers.     Moreover, having lived, and learned     The taste of Lifes most bitter spring,     For all the sick this sister yearned     The poor and suffering.     But though she had for every one     The phrase of comfort and the smile,     This shining daughter of the sun     Was dying all the while.     Yet self-withdrawn held out of reach     Was grief; except when music blent     Its deep, divine, prophetic speech     With voice and instrument.     Then sometimes would escape a cry     From that dark other life of hers     The half of her humanity     And sob through sound and verse.     At last there came the holy touch,     With psalms from higher homes and hours;     And she who loved the flowers so much     Now sleeps amongst the flowers.     By hearse-like yews and grey-haired moss,     Where wails the wind in starts and fits,     Twice bowed and broken down with loss,     The wife, the mother sits.     God help her soul! She cannot see,     For very trouble, anything     Beyond this wild Gethsemane     Of swift, black suffering;     Except it be that faltering faith     Which leads the lips of life to say:     There must be something past this death     Lord, teach me how to pray!     Ah, teach her, Lord! And shed through grief     The clear full light, the undefiled,     The blessing of the bright belief     Which sanctified her child.     Let me, a son of sin and doubt,     Whose feet are set in ways amiss     Who cannot read Thy riddle out,     Just plead, and ask Thee this;     Give her the eyes to see the things     The Life and Love I cannot see;     And lift her with the helping wings     Thou hast denied to me.     Yea, shining from the highest blue     On those that sing by Beulahs streams,     Shake on her thirsty soul the dew     Which brings immortal dreams.     So that her heart may find the great,     Pure faith for which it looks so long;     And learn the noble way to wait,     To suffer, and be strong.