XLV To W. B. FROM the brake the Nightingale Sings exulting to the Rose; Though he sees her waxing pale In her passionate repose, While she triumphs waxing frail, Fading even while she glows; Though he knows How it goes Knows of last year's Nightingale Wise the enamoured Nightingale, Wise the well-beloved Rose ! Love and life shall still prevail, Nor the silence at the close Break the magic of the tale In the telling, though it shows XLVI MATRI DILECTISSIMÆ IN the waste hour I. M. Between to-day and yesterday We watched, while on my arm Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone- Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange: And to a sound of lamentation The good, heroic soul with all its wealth— Suffering and passionate faith-was reabsorbed And life was changed to us for evermore. Was nothing left of her but tears Like blood-drops from the heart? Nought save remorse For duty unfulfilled, justice undone, Into the unimaginable abyss These things had never been? Nay, there were we, Her five strong sons! To her Death came—the great Deliverer came!— As equal comes to equal, throne to throne. She was a mother of men. The stars shine as of old. The unchanging River, Bent on his errand of immortal law, Works his appointed way To the immemorial sea. And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home: That she in us yet works and shines, Lives and fulfils herself, Unending as the river and the stars. Dearest, live on In such an immortality As we thy sons, Born of thy body and nursed Can give-of generous thoughts, That make men half in love with fate! Live on, O brave and true, In us thy children, in ours whose life is thine Our best and theirs! What is that best but thee— Thee, and thy gift to us, to pass Like light along the infinite of space To the immitigable end? Between the river and the stars, O royal and radiant soul, Thou dost return, thine influences return Turns stingless! What is Death But Life in act? How should the Unteeming Grave Be victor over thee, Mother, a mother of men? |