BORN AUGUST 10, 1823. DIED JANUARY 4, 1891.
What words avail to honour friends departed,
Gone from the gatherings which so long they graced?
What phrase seems fit when comrades loyal-hearted
Mourn a loved presence late by death displaced?
No formal elegiacs fashioned coldly,
Beseem the memory of that manly soul,
Whose simple, downright spirit trod so boldly
Life's most sequestered ways from start to goal.
Not rank's trim pleasaunce, nor parades of fashion
Tempted his genius; his the great highway
Where, free from courtly pride and modish passion,
Toil tramps, free humours crowd, rough wastrels stray.
Therein his magic pencil laboured gladly,
Fixing for ever on his chosen page
In forms fond memory now reviews so sadly
The crowded pageant of a passing age.
What an array! How varied a procession!
The humours of the parlour, shop, and street;
Philistia's every calling, craft, profession,
Cockneydom's cheery cheek and patter fleet.
Scotch dryness, Irish unction and cajolery,
Waiterdom's wiles, Deacondom's pomp of port;
Rustic simplicity, domestic drollery,
The freaks of Service and the fun of Sport;
And all with such true art, so fine, unfailing,
Of touch so certain, and of charm so fresh,
As to lend dignity to Cabmen railing,
To fustianed clods and fogies full of flesh.
Nor human humours only; who so tender
Of touch when sunny Nature out-of-doors
Wooed his deft pencil? Who like him could render
Meadow or hedgerow, turnip-field, or moor?
Snowy perspective, long suburban winding
Of bowery road-way, villa-edged and trim.
Iron-railed city street, where gas-lamps blinding
Glare through the foggy distance dense and dim?
All with that broad free force, whose fascination
All felt, and artists most, that dexterous sleight
Which gave our land the unchallenged consummation
Of graphic mastery in Black-and-White.
Pleasant to dwell on, and a proud possession,
Now the tired hand that shaped that world is still,
Leaving an ineffaceable impression
Upon the age that fired its force and skill.
Honoured abroad as loved at home, how ample,
The tribute to that modest spirit paid!
To pushing quackery a high example,
A calm rebuke to egotist parade!
Frank, loyal, unobtrusive, simple-hearted,
Loving his book, his pipe, his song, his friend,
Peaceful he lived and peacefully departed,
A gentle life-course, with a gracious end.
Irreparable loss to Art, deep sorrow
To those his comrades, who so loved the man,
And who had hoped for many a sunny morrow
To greet that gallant spirit in the van.
That tall, spare form, that curl-crowned head, the knitting
Of supple hands behind it as he sat,
That quaint face-wrinkling smile like sunshine flitting,
The droll, dry comment, the quotation pat;
The small oft-loaded pipe, of ancient moulding,
The brazen box that held the well-loved weed;
Who shall forget who once was graced by holding
In friendship's clasp the hand now still indeed?
Farewell, great artist, comrade staunch and loyal!
Few simpler lives our feverish age hath seen.
Could pomp high-pinnacled, or trappings royal,
Add honour to the memory of CHARLES KEENE?
