From labours through the night, outworn,
This love of nature, that allures to take
IL Y A CENT ANS, 259
That march of the funereal Past behold;
YOUTH IN AGE, 261
Once I was part of the music I heard
Epitaphs
TO A FRIEND LOST, 265
When I remember, friend, whom lost I call,
M. M., 265
Who call her Mother and who calls her Wife
THE LADY C. M., 266
To them that knew her, there is vital flame
ON THE TOMBSTONE OF JAMES CHRISTOPHER WILSON, 266
Thou our beloved and light of Earth hast crossed
GORDON OF KHARTOUM, 266
Of men he would have raised to light he fell:
J. C. M., 267
A fountain of our sweetest, quick to spring
THE EMPEROR FREDERICK OF OUR TIME, 267
With Alfred and St. Louis he doth win
ISLET THE DACHS, 267
Our Islet out of Helgoland, dismissed
ON HEARING THE NEWS FROM VENICE, 268
Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak,
HAWARDEN, 269
When comes the lighted day for men to read
AT THE FUNERAL, 270
Her sacred body bear: the tenement
ANGELA BURDETT-COUTTS, 270
Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest
THE YEAR’S SHEDDINGS, 270
The varied colours are a fitful heap:
A STAVE OF ROVING TIM
(ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.)
I
THE wind is East, the wind is West,
Blows in and out of haven;
The wind that blows is the wind that’s best,
And croak, my jolly raven!
If here awhile we jigged and laughed,
The like we will do yonder;
For he’s the man who masters a craft,
And light as a lord can wander.
So, foot the measure, Roving Tim,
And croak, my jolly raven!
The wind according to its whim
Is in and out of haven.