Note 10 — XI

My youngest brother's ingenuity was to know as little rest during much of his life as his strong faculty of agitation—to the employment of which it was indeed not least remarkably applied. Many illustrations of it would be to give, had I more margin; and not one of them anything less than striking, thanks to the vivacity of his intelligence, the variety of his gifts and the native ability in which he was himself so much less interested than was the case with everyone he met, however casually, that he became, many years before his death in 1910, our one gentleman of leisure: so far as this condition might consort with the easiest aptitude for admirable talk, charged with natural life, perception, humour and colour, that I have perhaps ever known. There were times when Bob's spoken overflow struck me as the equivalent, for fine animation, of William's epistolary. The note of the ingenious in him spent itself as he went, but I find an echo of one of its many incidents in the passage of verse that I am here moved to rescue from undue obscurity. It is too "amateurish" and has too many irregular lines, but images admirably the play of spirit in him which after ranging through much misadventure could at last drop to an almost effective grasp of the happiest relation.

Although I lie so low and still

Here came I by the Master's will;

He smote at last to make me free,

As He was smitten on the tree

And nailèd there. He knew of old

The human heart, and mine is cold;

And I know now that all we gain

Until we come to Him is vain.

Thy hands have never wrought a deed,

Thy heart has never known a need,

That went astray in His great plan

Since far-off days when youth began.

For in that vast and perfect plan

Where time is but an empty span

Our Master waits. He knows our want,

We know not his—till pale and gaunt

With weariness of life we come

And say to Him, What shall I be?

Oh Master, smite, but make me free

Perchance in these far worlds to know

The better thing we sought to be.

And then upon thy couch lie down

And fold the hands which have not sown;

And as thou liest there alone

Perhaps some breath from seraph blown

As soft as dew upon the rose

Will fall upon thee at life's close.

So thou wilt say, At last, at last!

All pain is love when pain is past!

And to the Master once again:

Oh keep my heart too weak to pray;

I ask no longer questions vain

Of life and love, of loss and gain—

These for the living are and strong;

I go to Thee, to Thee belong.

Once was I wakened by Thy light,

But years have passed, and now the night

Takes me to Thee. I am content;

So be it in Thy perfect plan

A mansion is where I am sent

To dwell among the innocent.