'T is midnight: through my troubled dream
Loud wails the tempest's cry;
Before the gale, with tattered sail,
A ship goes plunging by.
Now, by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen;
By every name I cut on bark
Before my morning star grew dark;
I'M not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
I STOOD On Sarum's treeless plain,
The waste that careless Nature owns;
Lone tenants of her bleak domain,
Loomed huge and gray the Druid stones.
HE sleeps not here; in hope and prayer
His wandering flock had gone before,
But he, the shepherd, might not share
WHILE in my simple gospel creed
That 'God is Love' so plain I read,
Shall dreams of heathen birth affright
My pathway through the coming night?
THE painter's and the poet's fame
Shed their twinned lustre round his name,
To gild our story-teller's art,
WE sing 'Our Country's' song to-night
With saddened voice and eye;
Her banner droops in clouded light
O MY lost beauty!--hast thou folded quite
Thy wings of morning light
Beyond those iron gates
Where Life crowds hurrying to the haggard Fates,
WHY linger round the sunken wrecks
Where old Armadas found their graves?
Why slumber on the sleepy decks
While foam and clash the angry waves?