by Duncan Sutherland Macorquodale

Free from the thrall called life, 
Palette and brush laid down; 
Off with achievement’s strife, 
Donned the immortal’s crown; 
Yet hovers she near ’neath the Wychwood tree, 
This, the roses she painted, tell to me.

Knelt not to gods of dress, 
Knew naught of gossip’s blight, 
Lived she to work and bless; 
This was her heart’s delight. 
And the smile of welcome to all she gave, 
Would fashion a knight from the meanest slave.

Why mourn we our loved, laid low? 
We also our time abide. 
Are they lost because they go? 
Nay! for they have not died. 

The body rests, but the soul is free 
To charm as of old with its melody. Queen, both of roses and hearts, 
Her mortal course well run; 
Her’s ‘both the good and the better parts; 
Martha, and Mary, in one. 

Still reigns she here, while there her body lies. 
The good, the pure, the noble, never dies.

 

 

 

Note: This is a memorial poem for Mary Hiester Ried written by Canadian newspaperman and a native son of Scotland, Duncan Sutherland Macorquodale - reprinted in the 9th Volume of The Canadian Theosophist (Toronto) November 15, 1921, Vol 9.

There’s a reference to Wychwood; Reid's house, Upland Cottage, was located in Wychwood Park - an artist’s enclave of 60 homes tucked away in a private ravine setting atop the rolling wooded hills of the Davenport Ridge in Toronto.


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