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| Portrait of the Rev William Hill. Photograph by Charles Wherret Source: National Portrait Gallery |
Sutcliffe published this work as a stand alone poem, a copy of which is pasted into a scrapbook in the State of Library Of Victoria’s (SLV) Sutcliffe Archive, along with the following newspaper clipping (I feel I once determined its source but for the time being it is unknown).
Mr Z. Sutcliffe has left with us a copy of his new book of poetic effusions. Some of the pieces are very creditably written, more particularly one on the death of the Rev. Wm. Hill.
This indicates that the poem was subsequently printed as part of a collection, probably one of the editions of “A Few Simple Lines”.
I disagree with the newspaper’s comment that it is creditably written.
The SLV does provide an electronic version of the stand alone poem ... available here.
The poem consists of ten quatrains with an ABCB rhyming pattern. It is undated but probably dates to the year in which the murder took place. Unless Sutcliffe knew Hill personally it probably postdates the publication of some of the tributes. The line “he who hath carried glad tidings of peace, To swarthy sons of the Orient strand” would be linked to Hill’s missionary work in India, details of which were not present in the first flush of reportage.
A summary of the events that surround the murder can be found here. It seemed too long an introduction to the poem to include in this post and I have therefore created a separate document for it.
An index of other Sutcliffe poems can be found here.
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE REV. WM. HILL, Who was killed by a Convict (RITSON) while administering the solaces of the Gospel to him, at Pentridge Stockade, on 13th May, 1869.
Hark! what means that loud cry, swelling high on the breeze,
Resounding the length and the breadth of our land?
'Tis the voice of a nation, in loud indignation,
Denouncing a cruel and murderous hand.
A brother has fallen, the beloved lies low,
A ministering Abel is brutally slain;
And the wails of a people, as tolls from the steeple
Fall on the ear of a blood-guilty Cain.
Yes, he who hath carried glad tidings of peace
To swarthy sons of the Orient strand;
And hath echoed the chime in Australia's clime,
And won for himself a name in our land;
A name that doth shine fair, illustrious, and perfect,
And bright among Austral's noblest and best;
Yet, in criminal's cell, there, bleeding he fell;
His blood dyed the hand he had labored to bless.
Behold in the horizon a beautiful star
Shedding its light calm and tranquilly bright,
When an envious cloud doth its lustre enshroud,
And shadows are left in the trail of its flight.
Then be hushed every cry, the star has not fallen,
But hid for a season the brighter to shine;
When the shadows shall flee, then wondering we'll see
In the deep rolling cloud a finger divine.
Then fare-thee-well! brother, we cannot deplore thee;
Thy life was a life of labour and love;
When death did its duty, its clothing was beauty,
A herald of glory to take thee above.
There the crown of the martyr shall circle thy brow
And sweetly the song of victory sing;
The palm shall be thine, -- Oh! how bright wilt thou shine,
Whose last moments were spent in serving thy King.
Yet we cannot but think of thy once happy home,
Of the orphans now so doubly bereft,
Their light and their guide both winged from their side,
And they lonely and weeping are left.
True, we cannot restore their dear parents again,
Or stem the sad tears of their natural grief;
But the destitute's cry we can surely supply,
And honor the dead by giving relief.
ZACHARIAH SUTCLIFFE.
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