In Memory of Alfred Pollexfen

Five-and-twenty years have gone
     Since old William Pollexfen
     Laid his strong bones down in death
     By his wife Elizabeth
     In the grey stone tomb he made.
     And after twenty years they laid
     In that tomb by him and her
     His son George， the astrologer；
     And Masons drove from miles away
     To scatter the Acacia spray
     Upon a melancholy man
     Who had ended where his breath began.
     Many a son and daughter lies
     Far from the customary skies，
     The Mall and Eades‘s grammar school，
     In London or in Liverpool；
     But where is laid the sailor John
     That so many lands had known，
     Quiet lands or unquiet seas
     Where the Indians trade or Japanese？
     He never found his rest ashore，
     Moping for one voyage more.
     Where have they laid the sailor John？
     And yesterday the youngest son，
     A humorous， unambitious man，
     Was buried near the astrologer，
     Yesterday in the tenth year
     Since he who had been contented long，
     A nobody in a great throng，
     Decided he must journey home，
     Now that his fiftieth year had come，
     And ‘Mr. Alfred’ be again
     Upon the lips of common men
     Who carried in their memory
     His childhood and his family.
     At all these death-beds women heard
     A visionary white sea-bird
     Lamenting that a man should die；
     And with that cry I have raised my cry.