Poems by Charles Kingsley

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It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve,
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
Twin stars, aloft in ether clear,
The merry merry lark was up and singing,
Dreary East winds howling o'er us;
Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain,
The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing
I heard an Eagle crying all alone
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Weep, weep, weep and weep,
Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the southward,
It was Earl Haldan's daughter,
Jesus, He loves one and all,
How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?
I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,
The world goes up and the world goes down,
Linger no more, my beloved, by abbey and cell and cathedral;
They drift away. Ah, God! they drift for ever.
(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)
Wearily stretches the sand to the surge, and the surge to the cloudland;
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
Ah tyrant Love, Megaera's serpents bearing,
Accept this building, gracious Lord,
And should she die, her grave should be
I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven;
List a tale a fairy sent us
Ask if I love thee? Oh, smiles cannot tell
Come hearken, hearken, gentles all,
Forward! Hark forward's the cry!
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
Hence a while, severer Muses;
Welcome, wild North-easter.
See how the autumn leaves float by decaying,
So die, thou child of stormy dawn,
A King is dead! Another master mind
Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes,
There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,
Espion aile de la jeune amante
Thank God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last!
She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;
Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride
Speak low, speak little; who may sing
There sits a bird on every tree;
The baby sings not on its mother's breast;
Oh, thou hadst been a wife for Shakspeare's self!
The merry brown hares came leaping
The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand:
Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?
The boy on the famous gray pony,
Yon sound's neither sheep-bell nor bark,
Come away with me, Tom,
'So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine;
Hark! hark! hark!
Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,
Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake,
Over the camp-fires
He wiled me through the furzy croft;
A floating, a floating
It was an hairy oubit, sae proud he crept alang,
Oh, I wadna be a yeoman, mither, to follow my father's trade,
Underneath their eider-robe
It was Sir John, the fair young Priest,
The King was drinking in Malwood Hall,
'O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
A harper came over the Danube so wide,
O blessed drums of Aldershot!
Early in spring time, on raw and windy mornings,
Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding,
Evil sped the battle play
Three fishers went sailing away to the West,
Clear and cool, clear and cool,
How sleeps yon rock, whose half-day's bath is done.
My parents bow, and lead them forth,
'Watchman, what of the night?'
The swevens came up round Harold the Earl,
Who will say the world is dying?
A gay young knight in Burley stood,
A hasty jest I once let fall -
The single eye, the daughter of the light;
There stood a low and ivied roof,
Oh! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south,
When all the world is young, lad,