In Memoriam

What of the night? For now his day is done, And he, the herald of the red sunrise, Leaves us in shadow even as when the sun Sinks from the sombre skies.

High peer of SHELLEY, with the chosen few He shared the secrets of Apollo's lyre, Nor less from Dionysian altars drew The god's authentic fire.

Last of our land's great singers, dowered at birth With music's passion, swift and sweet and strong, Who taught in heavenly numbers, new to earth, The wizardry of song—

His spirit, fashioned after Freedom's mould, Impatient of the bonds that mortals bear, Achieves a franchise large and uncontrolled, Rapt through the void of air.

"What of the night?" For him no night can be; The night is ours, left songless and forlorn; Yet o'er the darkness, where he wanders free, Behold, a star is born!

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. APRIL 21, 1909.

Masked in the beauty of the May-dawn's birth, Death came and kissed the brow still nobly fair, And hushed that heart of youth for which the earth Still kept its morning air.

Long time initiate in her lovely lore, Now is he one with Nature's woods and streams Whereof, a Paradisal robe, he wore The visionary gleams.

Among her solitudes he moved apart; The mystery of her clouds and star-sown skies, Touched by the fusing magic of his art, Shone clear for other eyes.

When from his lips immortal music broke, It was the myriad voice of vale and hill; "The lark ascending" poured a song that woke An echo sweeter still.

Yet most we mourn his loss as one who gave The gift of laughter and the boon of tears, Interpreter of life, its gay and grave, Its human hopes and fears.

Seer of the soul of things, inspired to know Man's heart and woman's, over all he threw The spell of fancy's iridescent glow, The sheen of sunlit dew.

And of the fellowship of that great Age For whose return our eyes have waited long, None left so rich a twofold heritage Of high romance and song.

We knew him, fronted like the Olympian gods, Large in his loyalty to land and friend, Fearless to fight alone with Fortune's odds, Fearless to face the end.

And he is dead. And at the parting sign We speak, too late, the love he little guessed, And bid him in the nation's heart for shrine Take his eternal rest.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. May 26, 1909.

As theirs, the warrior knights of Christian fame, Who for the Faith led on the battle line, Who stormed the breach and swept through blood and flame Under the Cross for sign,

Such was his life's crusade; and, as their death Inspired in men a purpose pure of taint— In some great cause to give their latest breath— So died this soldier-saint.

Nay, his the nobler warfare, since his hands Set free the thralls of misery and her brood— Hunger and haunting shame and sin that brands— And gave them hope renewed.

Bruised souls, and bodies broken by despair, He healed their heartache and their wounds he dressed, And drew them, so redeemed, his task to share, Sworn to the same high quest.

Armed with the Spirit's wisdom for his sword, His feet with tidings of salvation shod, He knew no foes save only such as warred Against the peace of God.

Scorned or acclaimed, he kept his harness bright, Still, through the darkest hour, untaught to yield And at the last, his face toward the light, Fell on the victor's field.

No laurelled blazon rests above his bier, Yet a great people bows its stricken head Where he who fought without reproach or fear, Soldier of Christ, lies dead.

SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Aug. 28, 1912.