Underneath the larch’s shade,
Where there fell
Flickering lights and shadows, made
By the spell
Of the sun and breeze, I lay
On an early Summer day,
Heard the waters far away
Down the dell.
Damp the moss grew in the nooks,
Overhead:
Trailed the 1vy from the rocks;
Softly spread
All around a dreamy glow;
Waved the branches to and fro,
As the wind would come and go,
Fancy-led.
And I heard a tiny peal,
Low and clear,
Softest music seemed to steal
To mine ear,
Not the sound of bird or bee,
Not of stream, or breeze, or tree,
But a gentler melody,
Yet more near.
All among the grass there grew
’Neath the trees,
Flowers of fairest form and hue,
’Twas from these,
From the petals, lightly swung,
Of the hyacinth, that hung
Her blue bells, which softly rung
On the breeze.
And this music seemed to swell,
Faintly heard,
From each tiny swinging bell,
Lightly stirred,
“Oh! a joyous life is ours
With its golden Summer hours,
Breeze and sunshine, dewy showers,
Bee and bird!
When the sunny smile of Spring
Warms the air,
Bids the woods awake and sing
Music rare,
Then we burst our Winter tomb,
Cast aside our robes of gloom,
Clothe us in our Summer bloom,
Fresh and fair.
To our blossoms sweet and free,
Wild bees throng;
Oh'! a gladsome life have we
The woods among,
Till the Autumn winds blow cold,
Then our tender buds we fold,
Sink beneath the kindly mould,
The Winter long.
And though loud the storm may beat,
Wild and drear,
We, within our safe retreat,
Feel no fear;
For we know that Winter’s sway,
Yields to Spring’s delicious May,
And to Summer’s golden day,
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Such their music—it enfolds
Thoughts of faith;
Thou, whose soul long Winter holds,
Night and death,—
He who bringeth by His might
Life from death, from darkness light,
Holdeth precious in His sight
Thy soul’s breath.
He who keeps the Summer flowers
’Neath the sod,
Sees thee in thy darkest hours,
All down-trod,
He, whose hand, with tenderest might,
Bathes with dew and paints with light
These frail creatures, knows Thy night,
Is Thy God.
Oh! thou dweller in the dust,
Lift thine eyes,
Look to him with holy trust,
Thou shalt rise;
Look to Him, so will He bring
For Thy Winter, joyous Spring;
Thou too shalt awake and sing
To His praise.
From out the grass-roofed hut in far Illala,
Beneath the shadow of the tropic palm,
Where sudden on that life of heat and labour
There settled evening’s healing cool and calm;
When he, who through long years of toil had wandered,
Folded his hands for ever on his breast,
And they who watched him, drawing near with reverence,
Whispered, “The mighty master is at rest”;
Up from the tangled groves and reedy thickets,
By lake and river’s dank and marshy shore,
O’er mountain and o’er plain, ’mid foes and danger,
With faithful hands the cherished form they bore.
Thus many moons had come and gone upon them,
Until at last they reached the longed-for strand,
And then they brought their dead across the ocean,
And laid him down within his father’s land.
Yes, long and grand the funeral march they gave him,
Those sons of Afric’, bringing home their trust,
Like them of old, who through their desert journey
Bore up from Egypt Joseph’s treasured dust.
Oh! traveller from that unknown wild’s recesses
For thee may Britain well her hands outspread
Well may she seek to give thee noblest burial,
And lay thee with the mighty of her dead.
No warrior thou, borne home from fields of slaughter,
With earthly pride and blood-bought honour crowned
But greater far, for deeds of highest daring,
Of mercy, and of Christian love, renowned.
Wails of the vanquished, groans of the despairing,
Mar not the music of thy funeral hymn,
And with no smoke of burning kraal in ruins,
Or lands deserted, is thy glory dim;
For thou went’st forth to loose the iron fetters,
The spoiler’s deeds of darkness to unveil,
And in the spirit of thy Heavenly Master,
The broken-hearted and oppressed to hail.
So, ages hence, when from her shores enlightened,
Glad voices peace and liberty proclaim,
Shall Africa thy blessèd memory cherish,
And teach her sons this noble white man’s name.
And worthy sepulture she too had found thee,
Beside the long-sought fountains of her Nile,
Within the shadow of her ancient mountains,
Or where Marava’s silver waters smile.
But fitter that with us thy dust should slumber,
And since two lands must mourn their fallen brave,
That Afric’s hut should be thy funeral chamber
While Briton gives her long-lost son a grave.
Yet wherefore reck where Livingstone is lying?—
For long before our portals opened wide,
With pomp and state to give those ashes burial,
And lay the dust its kindred dust beside,—
Straight from that lonely hut of pain ascending,
A soul had touched the everlasting shore,
And joyful at the heavenly city’s gateway
A spirit entered to go out no more.