Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/244

So are ye little treasured, coldly named,
 Remembered with vain honours, or forgot!

        And ours hath been the loss:
Our silence grieves you not, our erring praise
Perchance doth never reach you where you raise
Your fuller, sweeter song to Him whose brow
Doth wear the Many Crowns upon it, "Thou
Art only worthy, Thou who art our Praise."
Yes! ours hath been the loss.
 For ye are ours! the lives ye held not dear
Were given for us! strong champions of the Cross
 Who went before us in God's faith and fear,
Your blood makes rich our heritage; no tear
 Of yours but lies upon it still like dew,
No word of yours but yet hath power to cheer—
 Ye have not need of us, but we of you!

        And oh, Beloved ones, my lips are fain
To speak of you! this heart of mine so long
Hath communed with you, they may not refrain
To pay you honour in a guileless song;
I will not fear to do the Master wrong
In praising you, His servants, whom, unseen,
I love in Him. As oft a stranger's mien
Grows sudden dear through summoning the face
Of friend beloved, so have I joyed to trace
Your features back to His, and in the tone
Ye use, a sweeter voice hath still been known;
Nor read I blame within their ardent eyes,