The farmer and mechanic. [volume] (Raleigh, N.C.) 18??-19??, 1909-02-23

+ = =. CO Will Ill III CbSSSCIIO1i vi
wide ocean and waning light and
vesper bells; easy to understand n
full of music, yet opening inward to
a truth which has no words, n
pointing onward to q vision which
transcends all FORMS; it is a delight
and a consolation, a song for mortal
ears, and a prelude to the larger music
of Immortality"
1t is indeed a lyric for the ages.
Its music must ring with most pecu-
liar charm in the ears of millions Of
the children of men, and fill he
hearts of all who love and honor God
and His Dear Son. It is a song for
all n must appeal to the old on
the confines of the grave as it rings
melodiously and charmingly in he
| ears of the young n middle-aged
The son of the poet is his ~biograph-
er and he has written Of the great and
charming poet:
Crossing the Bar was written by
my ather in his eighty-firSt year, on
a day in October when he came from
Aldworth to F~'arringfOrd. Before
reaching F~arringford he had the
Moaning of the Bar in his mind, and
after dinner he showed me the poem
written out. I said, That is the
crown of your LIES work. He an
swered, Tt came in a moment"
The aged, inspired poet died at half
past one o'clock on the morning of
October 9Th, 1892. 1T vas written of
his death soon after it occurred:
From an Interesting article thai APP
peared a few years after the close
Of the great poets honored life, by
Allan sutherland, I take h following
account of the death scene:
THE tide IF his life ebbed peace
fully out into the great ocean OF
eternity, and so calmly did he respond
TO the reckoning hand Of the death
angel that those who stood about his
bed scarcely knew when the end
came.
During a wakeful interval on the
afternoon preceding his death he ask
ed for a copy of Shakespeare, and
with his own hands. turned to his ia
vorite lines in '~Cymbeline':
Hang there, like fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die
These, he frequently declared.
were Sh~akespeare's tenderest words.
He liked his eyes on the page, but
did not speak,
This appeared in q fashion journal
called THE Delineator.' l u take
leave to reproduce once more n
give the accoun of the burial as
written by the intellectual son of the
poet, Lord Tennyson, the Q he
writes.
we placed 'Cymbeline' with him,
and q laurel wreath from Virgils
tomb. and wreath Of roses, the flow
er he loved above all flowers, and
some OF his Alexandrian laurel-the
poets laurel. On the evening Of the
18th the coffin was set upon u
and made beautiful with
Stag'S-hOrn moss and the scarlet
Icbelia; and draped with the pail,
woven by working men and women
of the North, and embroidered by the
cOttagers of Keswick; and then we
covered him with the wreaths Of flow
ers sent from all parts of Great Brl-
tain. The coachman. who mad been
for more than thirty years my faith
er's faithful servant, led the. horse.
I make no apology for copying
what is given concerning the closing
scene in the life of one Of the great
est geniuses of the English-speaking
race. He is indeed a master, and
| next to William Shakespeare and
John Milton there is no poet to stand
in his front among all of the great
sons of song in England's splendid
galaxy.
After closing this article I turned
and read an account in the paper
from which l have copied of a tragic
event at Pastfngfu, China, during the
fearful massacre of the Christians
in June. 1900. I copy only a part:
During the days preceding the
tragedy, the little circle of men. wo-
men and chlIdfen. VINO were 50 So'"
to seal their faith with their blood
frequently gathered about the organ
in the compound and sang the songs
of the homeland, now dOubly dear
and consoling to them because OF
their. helplessness and need; and with
pathetic prescience- Tennyson's beau
tiful sunset hymn was always m
Guided. II would be difficult to I'M
agine a greater contrast than that
which existed between the peaceful
surroundings OF. the gifted author
when he Crossed the bar" in the
early autumn morning and the wild
tumult through which these brave
young missionaries went to their
martryrdom; out we doubt not that
J the same gentle Pilot who stood IN