OLD ST. THOMAS' CHURCHYARD, DURBAN.
No English willow for our English dead:
The soft flamboyant shades their southern sleep.
On the spare grass syringa blooms are shed,
And lithe virginias creep
Over the stones where the swift lizards tread.
The rose is here, but with a faint perfume;
And, standing 'thwart the hedge, the kaffir-boom
Holds in mid-air its tufts of poppy red.
Worship has gone, but Peace has never left
The church deserted, with the toppling tower
And the dead creeper—Time can make no theft
Of her unpassing hour,
For Time in this retreat seems wing-bereft.
The world is all apart—far, far away
The eyes scarce catch the shapes of Bluff and Bay,
Where tree and gable leave an opening cleft.
Slowly the great gate opens, as 'twere loth
To yield its sombre pathways to our tread.
Slowly we saunter, reading thro' thick growth
The records of the dead.
The spirit of the place demands an oath
Of silence, and of endless quietness.
Yet many here on whom the lilies press
Had little time for reverie or sloth.
