SIR GEORGE PARKIN by WILSON PUGSLEY MACDONALD

WHEN a great tree goes down beneath the weight
Of its own years, in ripeness of completion,
We keep a noble sorrow, not akin
To that despair which sounds the grievous passing
Of lovely, young and incompleted life:
And when a great man comes at last to earth,
Urged by his own magnificence of years,
The hour is not for sorrow or regret;
And yet it is not free from loneliness --
The groping ever for departed hands,
The waiting for a word that will not come.

This mighty fugue of life is built on chords --
Some loud, resounding, some quiet as light,
Some that seem discord until our hearts are tuned
To the advancing harmony of Time;
When Parkin went he left a gap in the rhythm
Of the great song. His going was a loss
To chivalry, and the fine-mannered years
Stumbled into his sleep. On friend or foe
He cast no shadow of intolerance,
And took your way of thinking with a warmth,
Or differed with you as a gentleman.

O Youth, your burning wine is in my blood!
May I keep this forever -- it is good.
Yet sometimes I have seen, in an old man's face,
That sparkle which is valor in old wine.
Here was one whose flow of soul had gained,
In the cool cellars of near eighty years,
A flavor of great richness. Lay him down,
This fine aristocrat of our young land,
And fold about him that bright cloth of gold
Which all his days have woven for this hour.

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