In Memoriam Poem by Alexander Anderson

The Rev. John Donaldson, M.A., Kirkconnel. 'Ave Atque Vale.'

A brooding quiet rests to-day
On all the well-known hills around;
Spring lingers slowly by the way,
Like one who listens for a sound.


In front she sends a messenger,
A softer feeling through the air,
And in bright nooks beloved of her,
She plants a primrose here and there.


The earth is waiting for the life
That stirs to-day, and not in vain;
The promise of the spring is rife
With consecrations of the rain.


And here once more, as in a dream,
I stand and watch the sunshine glance
Upon the ripples of the stream
That glides and murmurs by the manse.


But deep upon the Pastor's Pool
A sense of loss and shadow lies;
To me this sweet spring day is full
Of death and all its mysteries.


The manse is silent; not for him
Spring with her wand of wondrous spell;
He sleeps amid the silence dim—
The good gray head we knew so well.


The dear, old pastor, kind and wise,
Large-hearted, full of quiet grace,
The kindliness within his eyes,
The sympathy upon his face.


The old-world courtliness of speech,
The tender spirit quickly stirred;
The large experience that could teach,
And claim for all a kindly word.


Broad as the Master whom he served,
And tolerant as the summer air;
The pity that nor failed nor swerved
Was with him, and was always there.


High culture born of classic lore,
A richer culture of the heart,
A quiet scorn of aught that wore
The mean device of idle art.


Through all these gifts and learning ran,
Deep down and in a simple way,
The manliness that made the man,
As light completes and makes the day.


Such was our friend we shall not see,
Yet sweet the friendship that has been;
I speak to him—he speaks to me
Across the grave that lies between.


To-night the manse receives its dead,
To-night his slumbers will be fair;
To-night around that good gray head
The darkness will be sacred there.


To-morrow with his kindred dust
His own shall lie; the grass will grow
Above him; earnest of that trust
And faith he held that sleeps below.


Around him, and beneath the stone
Whereon their simple name appears,
In rain and sunshine slumber on
The dead of those long fifty years.


He stood beside them when their brow
Grew white beneath the shadowy hand
Of that last terror—death, and now
He comes to join their silent band.


And he will sleep with them through all
The seasons as they come and go;
Spring, blushing as her footsteps fall,
And winter with his drifts of snow.


The years will wax and wane, and bring
Their breathing space of Sabbaths still;
But other voices then will sing
Within the church upon the hill.


And stranger forms will press the grass,
Where headstones mark the dead below,
Or read, half careless, as they pass,
The dim remembered names they show.


Change, change in this mysterious din
Of human life that smiles or grieves;
Time sitting at his loom takes in
New colours in the web he weaves.


So be it; but the years in store
May bring whatever is most meet;
But we behind shall see no more
His gracious presence in the street.


And I, his friend, no more shall hear
The rich deep music of his speech,
Except when Fancy cheats the ear
By placing it within my reach.


Shall never see his kindly eyes
Light up with welcome; for the last
Farewell is taken; darkness lies
On him and them, and all is past.


Henceforth the churchyard on the hill,
Dear to us all, and pure and fair,
Shall in our hearts be dearer still
Because the Pastor slumbers there.