Henry Kendall (Генри Кендалл)

Songs from the Mountains (1880). By the Cliffs of the Sea

(In Memory of Samuel Bennett.)

In a far-away glen of the hills,
 Where the bird of the night is at rest,
Shut in from the thunder that fills
 The fog-hidden caves of the west—
In a sound of the leaf, and the lute
 Of the wind on the quiet lagoon,
I stand, like a worshipper, mute
 In the flow of a marvellous tune!
And the song that is sweet to my sense
 Is, "Nearer, my God, unto Thee";
But it carries me sorrowing hence,
 To a grave by the cliffs of the sea.

So many have gone that I loved—
 So few of the fathers remain,
That where in old seasons I moved
 I could never be happy again.
In the breaks of this beautiful psalm,
 With its deep, its devotional tone,
And hints of ineffable calm,
 I feel like a stranger, alone.
No wonder my eyes are so dim—
 Your trouble is heavy on me,
O widow and daughter of him
 Who sleeps in the grave by the sea!

The years have been hard that have pressed
 On a head full of premature grey,
Since Stenhouse went down to his rest,
 And Harpur was taken away.
In the soft yellow evening-ends,
 The wind of the water is faint
By the home of the last of my friends—
 The shrine of the father and saint.
The tenderness touching—the grace
 Of Ridley no more is for me;
And flowers have hidden the face
 Of the brother who sleeps by the sea.

The vehement voice of the South
 Is loud where the journalist lies;
But calm hath encompassed his mouth,
 And sweet is the peace in his eyes.
Called hence by the Power who knows
 When the work of a hero is done,
He turned at the message, and rose
 With the harness of diligence on.
In the midst of magnificent toil,
 He bowed at the holy decree;
And green is the grass on the soil
 Of the grave by the cliffs of the sea.

I knew him, indeed; and I knew,
 Having suffered so much in his day,
What a beautiful nature and true
 In Bennett was hidden away.
In the folds of a shame without end,
 When the lips of the scorner were curled,
I found in this brother a friend—
 The last that was left in the world.
Ah! under the surface austere
 Compassion was native to thee;
I send from my solitude here
 This rose for the grave by the sea.

To the high, the heroic intent
 Of a life that was never at rest,
He held, with a courage unspent,
 Through the worst of his days and the best.
Far back in the years that are dead
 He knew of the bitterness cold
That saddens with silver the head
 And makes a man suddenly old.
The dignity gracing his grief
 Was ever a lesson to me;
He lies under blossom and leaf
 In a grave by the cliffs of the sea.

Above him the wandering face
 Of the moon is a loveliness now,
And anthems encompass the place
 From lutes of the luminous bough.
The forelands are fiery with foam
 Where often and often he roved;
He sleeps in the sight of the home
 That he built by the waters he loved.
The wave is his fellow at night,
 And the sun, shining over the lea,
Sheds out an unspeakable light
 On this grave by the cliffs of the sea.

1. Early Poems (1859-70). In Memoriam—Nicol Drysdale Stenhouse
2. Other Poems (1871-82). How the Melbourne Cup was Won
3. Other Poems (1871-82). Sydney Exhibition Cantata
4. Early Poems (1859-70). Cui Bono?
5. Early Poems (1859-70). Dungog

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