Walter Richard Cassels
Biography of Walter Richard Cassels
Walter Richard Cassels (London 4 September 1826 - 10 June 1907) is the speculated author of the anonymous work Supernatural Religion.
Born in London to a British consular official, Walter spent most of his early life in India. In partnership with two of his brothers he later set up a business in Bombay. After serving in the legislative council of Bombay from 1863 to 1865, he returned to England.
Walter Richard Cassels's Works:
* Eidolon, or the Course of a Soul; and other poems. William Pickering: London, 1850.
* Poems. Smith, Elder & Co.: London, 1856.
* Cotton: An Account of its Culture in the Bombay Presidency.
Walter Richard Cassels Poems
The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise-- Llewellyn went at morn among the hills,
The dream fell on him one calm summer night, Stealing amid the waving of the corn, That waited, golden, for the harvest morn--
The day fades fast; And backward ebbs the tide of light From the far hills in billows bright, Scattering foam, as they sweep past,
Father And Son
The King call'd forth his first-born, and took him by the hand, 'Come! boy, and see the people you must soon command:
Turn thine eyes from me, Angel of Heaven-- Read not my soul, Angel of Heaven-- Sorrow is steeping my pale cheeks with weeping,
There is a land whereon the sun's warm gaze, God-like, all-seeing, falls right down through space,
Life's chalice is empty--pour in! pour in! What?--Pour in Strength! Strength for the struggle through good and ill;
Guy Of Warwick
Autumn went faintly flying o'er the land, Trailing her golden hair along the West, Weeping to find her waving fields despoil'd,
The night is dark, and evermore The thick drops patter on the pane The wind is weary of the rain, And round the thatches moaneth sore;
Floating Down The River
My little bark glides steadily along, Still and unshaken as a summer dream; And never falls the oar into the stream,
Beatrice Di Tenda
1. It was too sweet--such dreams do ever fade When Sorrow shakes the sleeper from his rest--
Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late; Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead; Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed;
A Withered Rose-Bud
Time sets his footprints on our little Earth, And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing
From what rock-hollow'd cavern deep in ocean, Where jagged columns break the billow's beat, Whirl'd upward by some wild mid-world commotion,
Winds are sighing round the drooping eaves;
Sadly float the midnight hours away;
Dun and grey athwart the ivy-leaves,
Fall the first pale chilly tints of day,
Ah me! the weary, weary tints of day.
Soon the darkness will be past and gone;
Soon the silence spread its noiseless wing;
Sleep will strike its tent and hurry on;