War Drums (Scharkie)/To the Memory of F. H. Pearse
TO THE MEMORY OF F. H. PEARSE. WHO DIED JULY 19, 1896.
Not wintry blasts have seared the leaf;Nor winter snows, pearling the shroudWith more of gladness than of grief,—The silver lining of the sunset cloud—Have wrapt thee in thy winding sheet.No!—graves have tales more sad and sweet.
Not autumn winds have sighed their strainsOf melody; nor autumn tears,Dripping alternate joys and pains,Have mellowed thy young life to riper years.No! the strung chords had scarcely gushedTheir prelude bursts than snapt, and hushed.
The red rose blooms by hedge and lea,Vieing its kin in fair repute;And apple-blossoms, droopingly,Whiten to paleness on the verge of fruit;Nor pass the sequent path of spring—The ripening through the blossoming.
And springs will come, and springs will go,And winter whiten many a lock.—Thy springtide ne'er shall pass, nor knowThe weight and substance of the ripened shockOf summer heat, and autumn's wane,Of gladsome hope, and bitter bane.
Ah! graves have tales so sad and sweet.We weep, and lie the blossom by;And mourn the broken, incomplete,Unfinished rounding of the heart and eye,Which, scarcely oped to purest day,Glazed to the storm, and passed away.
Eternal youth be thine. No cloudTo shade; no nipping blasts to searThe hallowed prospect of the shroud,And modest virtue of th' untimely tear—No storms to mar, with darkening strife,The daybreak of the set of life.