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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            LXXXIV.
             
      When I contemplate all alone
          The life that had been thine below,
          And fix my thoughts on all the glow
      To which thy crescent would have grown;

      I see thee sitting crown’d with good,
          A central warmth diffusing bliss
          In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss,
      On all the branches of thy blood;

      Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine;
          For now the day was drawing on,
          When thou should’st link thy life with one
      Of mine own house, and boys of thine

      Had babbled ‘Uncle’ on my knee;
          But that remorseless iron hour
          Made cypress of her orange flower,
      Despair of Hope, and earth of thee.

      I seem to meet their least desire,
          To clap their cheeks, to call them mine.
          I see their unborn faces shine
      Beside the never-lighted fire.

      I see myself an honour’d guest,
          Thy partner in the flowery walk
          Of letters, genial table-talk,
      Or deep dispute, and graceful jest;

      While now thy prosperous labour fills
          The lips of men with honest praise,
          And sun by sun the happy days
      Descend below the golden hills

      With promise of a morn as fair;
          And all the train of bounteous hours
          Conduct by paths of growing powers,
      To reverence and the silver hair;

      Till slowly worn her earthly robe,
          Her lavish mission richly wrought,
          Leaving great legacies of thought,
      Thy spirit should fail from off the globe;

      What time mine own might also flee,
          As link’d with thine in love and fate,
          And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait
      To the other shore, involved in thee,

      Arrive at last the blessed goal,
          And He that died in Holy Land
          Would reach us out the shining hand,
      And take us as a single soul.

      What reed was that on which I leant?
          Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake
          The old bitterness again, and break
      The low beginnings of content.
       


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