'In Eden every flower is blown. Amen.'—

His own epitaph
A happy time in my young life—when dreams
Ran in sweet thrills through all my eager frame—
Came back again with all its golden gleams,
Like summer's sunset with its beams of flame,
And, reaching outward, brought with broad desire
The old thoughts and fancies that like jewels lay
In their own dust, to brighten like a fire
When touch'd, and that sweet touch was—David Gray.
For years before, when he was fresh in death,
The echo of his short existence came,
And touching mine bore like a meadow breath,
A giant wish to scale the steeps of fame.
And gathering round this, as a high chief truth,
Came proud-will'd Titan dreams, and hopes that spring,
Like tropic birds, from out the heart of youth,
And those ethereal vatic souls who sing.
So came his life to me, with all its sweets,
And breathing through me with a kindred tone,
Led me, as one is led by Roman Keats,
Through fits and dreams that once had been my own.
I wept true tears of fellowship, as through
Fair dreams and sweet, though wither'd, hopes rose up;
Not death, but something beautiful to view—
A wreath'd Apollo with inverted cup.
For God laid His own hands upon his head
And drew him nearer, so with nobler look
He stands to us pure-toned in all he said
And sung in this death-gift of his, this book.
Lo! as I once more turn its leaves, so rife
With the proud beatings of that eager heart,
Again, like wither'd violets, all his life
Stirs up and hangs above his passionate art.
And, reading on, we ever stop to ask,
What if this 'piece of childhood thrown away'
Had grown to manhood working at its task,
Till the flush'd evening sober'd into gray?
Vain question—for the Sphinx-like years are mute,
And will not answer, but this promise seen,
Will ever stand a statue veil'd to shoot
White hands to all the fond what might have been.
But he is in the shadows where no cloy
Can enter. Let us leave him to his rest;
Knowing that years ago the eager boy
Has ripen'd in the warmth of God's own breast,
And thrilling with full growth of heavenly powers,
Hears the deep melody of sphere to sphere;
And throbbing with that music not like ours,
Stands with his back to what he left us here:
For other songs are his. But ours are still
Those his lips utter'd of his hopes and fears,
Dropt like a stone in the lake with unripe skill,
To send a tiny ripple through the years.
Then flow, thou Luggie, with a softer gush;
Thou wert his boyhood's worship; flow along,
While the kind years grant him his deathbed wish,
And make him the fifth name in unfledged song.
So let him sleep his early sleep; we know
What slumbers with him all untold to time;
The crush'd flower gives forth odour, but will blow
No more into the fulness of its prime.
Therefore, O friend, who still had thought of me
In the city's whirl, if this poor song of mine
Bring thy dead friend—for he was dear to thee—
Nearer, or lay in thought his hands in thine,
It will be double joy to me that I,
A poor rough singer in my own rough way,
Should lay this rhythmic offering with a sigh
On the young Schiller of dreamers—David Gray.