"THE KING IS DEAD."
Reading edition
Hush! There's a solemn pause, And looks of fear! You ask—Whence comes the cause? Grim Death is here!
Oh! well thou answerest, well— 'Tis fairly said; Our hearts thrill to the knell, "The King is dead!"
Dead! And the bell swings, swings On in its deep, sad tone; We own the King of Kings Is King alone!
We crown our Kings, we place Bay leaves on victors' brow, But all our mortal race Can boast is now.
The body lay in state, All fair to mortal eye; The soul's eternal fate— Oh! Death, thy mystery!
TO "X. Y. Z.," On receiving a paper from him.
"Old places have a charm for me The new can ne'er attain; Old faces—how I long to see Their kindly looks again!"—Anon.
"X. Y. Z.," your paper was A welcome thing, indeed, to me; It brought the memories of old days, Like fragrance wafted o'er the sea.
It spake about familiar nooks, The dear old paths I know so well; I almost thought I heard the brooks, Or roamed again my favourite dell.
The happy hours, the rustic glades, The gloaming time, the twilight stroll, Ah, me! these April evening shades With old-time dreams can haunt one's soul.
The heart feels young again and free, And no such word is known as care; Sweet rays of light that used to be Seem hovering in the twilight air!
The hedges and the fields of green, The lanes, the flowers, the wild bird's trill, The trees, seen down the water's sheen. The cattle lowing o'er the hill!
Your well-drawn school-life picture, too, My school-time morn recalls again; 'Tis like an old tune, sweet and true, That mingles pleasing notes with pain.
The fields, the schools, the village way, The quaint, old-fashioned, country rhyme, All come, like mystic glows that stray Across the yellowing fields of Time.
The English lanes have lovely flowers, And moss, and ferns, and birds that sing, But Erin—green Erin—still is ours. And to her name our fond hearts cling.
Each land we visit claims some grace— Some special charm it calls its own; Yet patriot souls must love the place Which childhood's happy memories crown.