A FRIEND

All, that he came to give, He gave, and went again: I have seen one man live, I have seen one man reign, With all the graces in his train. As one of us, he wrought Things of the common hour: Whence was the charmed soul brought, That gave each act such power; The natural beauty of a flower? Magnificence and grace, Excellent courtesy: A brightness on the face, Airs of high memory: Whence came all these, to such as he? Like young Shakespearian kings, He won the adoring throng: And, as Apollo sings, He triumphed with a song: Triumphed, and sang, and passed along. With a light word he took The hearts of men in thrall: And, with a golden look, Welcomed them, at his call Giving their love, their strength, their all.

No man less proud than he, Nor cared for homage less; Only, he could not be Far off from happiness: Nature was bound to his success. Weary, the cares, the jars The lets, of every day: But the heavens filled with stars, Chanced he upon the way: And where he stayed, all joy would stay. Now, when sad night draws down, When the austere stars burn: Roaming the vast stars burn: My thoughts and memories yearn Toward him, who never will return. Yet I have seen him live, And owned my friend, a king: And that he came to give, He gave, and I, who sing His praise, bring all I have to bring.

Sombre and rich, the skies; Great glooms and starry plains. Gently the night wind sighs; Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned. Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall: Only the night wind glides: No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. Gone, too, his Court: and yet, The stars his courtiers are; Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star. Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing. Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies? Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy: Never was face so stern With sweet austerity. Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. Speak after sentence? Yea: And to the end of time. Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London’s gloom. Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world’s employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy. King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face. Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will.