A new-born morning from the Infinite And as I hurried through the busy streets, And mild kine couched in fields of uncrushed dew. From Horton. A DREAM. Fair lady, in my dream Methought I was a weak and lonely bird, In search of summer, wandered on the sea, I dried my feathers, smoothed my ruffled breast, From A Life Drama. THE DYING KING. A grim old king, Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed But in the sunset he was ebbing fast, Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand held His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood, That seemed to mourn him with his drooping head; His right, his broken brand; and in his ear His old victorious banners flap the winds. He called his faithful herald to his side,'Go! tell the dead I come!' With a proud smile, The warrior with a stab let out his soul, Which fled and shrieked through all the other world, 'Ye dead! My master comes!' And there was pause Till the great shade should enter. From A Life Drama. MY DUTY AND FAME. Y life was a long dream; when I awoke, Lifts up a stranded boat upon the beach. I will go forth 'mong men, not mailed in scorn, Great duties are before me and great songs, From A Life Drama. Let time and chance combine; The fairest love from heaven above, That love of yours was mine, My dear, That love of yours was mine. The past is fled and gone, and gone, If nought but pain to me remain, I'll fare in memory on, My dear, I'll fare in memory on. The saddest tears must fall, must fall, In weal or woe, in this world below, My dear, I love you ever and all. A long road full of pain, of pain, A long road full of pain; One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part, We ne'er can meet again, My dear, We ne'er can meet again. Hard fate will not allow, allow, Hard fate will not allow; We blessed were as the angels are, Adieu for ever now, My dear, Adieu for ever now. ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. Born 1815. Died 1881. ASH WEDNESDAY. (Written on the anniversary of the deaths of his mother and wife.) DAY of Ashes!-twice for me Thy mournful title hast thou earned, For twice my life of life by thee Has been to dust and ashes turned. No need, dark day, that thou should'st borrow The trappings of a formal sorrow; In thee are cherished fresh and deep Long memories that cannot sleep. My Mother-on that fatal day, O'er seas and deserts far apart, That nursed my very mind and heart- The faith serene that never quailed, My Wife-when closed that fatal night, And found myself again alone. The smile that made the dark world bright, The love that made all duty light. |