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Drifting Away: A Fragment

(Written for music to be sung at a parish industrial exhibition)

See the land, her Easter keeping,

Rises as her Maker rose.

Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,

Burst at last from winter snows.

Earth with heaven above rejoices;

Fields and gardens hail the spring;

Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices,

by Charles Kingsley

Dolcino To Margaret

The world goes up and the world goes down,

And the sunshine follows the rain;

And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown

Can never come over again,

Sweet wife:

No, never come over again.

For woman is warm though man be cold,

And the night will hallow the day;

by Charles Kingsley

Scotch Song

Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw bride

To meet her winsome groom,

When she was aware of twa bonny birds

Sat biggin' in the broom.

The tane it built with the green, green moss,

But and the bents sae fine,

And the tither wi' a lock o' lady's hair

Linked up wi' siller twine.

by Charles Kingsley

Palinodia

Ye mountains, on whose torrent-furrowed slopes,

And bare and silent brows uplift to heaven,

I envied oft the soul which fills your wastes

Of pure and stern sublime, and still expanse

Unbroken by the petty incidents

Of noisy life: Oh hear me once again!

Winds, upon whose racked eddies, far aloft,

Above the murmur of the uneasy world,

by Charles Kingsley

A March

Dreary East winds howling o'er us;

Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us;

Mire and ice and snow and sleet;

Aching backs and frozen feet;

Knees which reel as marches quicken,

Ranks which thin as corpses thicken;

While with carrion birds we eat,

Calling puddle-water sweet,

by Charles Kingsley

In An Illuminated Missal

I would have loved: there are no mates in heaven;

I would be great: there is no pride in heaven;

I would have sung, as doth the nightingale

The summer's night beneath the moone pale,

But Saintes hymnes alone in heaven prevail.

My love, my song, my skill, my high intent,

Have I within this seely book y-pent:

And all that beauty which from every part

by Charles Kingsley

The Last Buccaneer

OH, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high;

But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I;

And such a port for mariners I ne’er shall see again,

As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,

All furnish’d well with small arms and cannons round about;

And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free

by Charles Kingsley

A New Forest Ballad

Oh she tripped over Ocknell plain,

And down by Bradley Water;

And the fairest maid on the forest side

Was Jane, the keeper's daughter.

She went and went through the broad gray lawns

As down the red sun sank,

And chill as the scent of a new-made grave

The mist smelt cold and dank.

by Charles Kingsley

A Thought From The Rhine

I heard an Eagle crying all alone

Above the vineyards through the summer night,

Among the skeletons of robber towers:

Because the ancient eyrie of his race

Was trenched and walled by busy-handed men;

And all his forest-chace and woodland wild,

Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe,

Were trim with grapes which swelled from hour to hour,

by Charles Kingsley

My Hunting Song

Forward! Hark forward's the cry!

One more fence and we're out on the open,

So to us at once, if you want to live near us!

Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,

Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!

Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,

Find themselves staring alone.

So the great cause flashes by;

by Charles Kingsley

Sappho

She lay among the myrtles on the cliff;

Above her glared the noon; beneath, the sea.

Upon the white horizon Atho's peak

Weltered in burning haze; all airs were dead;

The cicale slept among the tamarisk's hair;

The birds sat dumb and drooping. Far below

The lazy sea-weed glistened in the sun;

The lazy sea-fowl dried their steaming wings;

by Charles Kingsley

A Parable From Liebig

The church bells were ringing, the devil sat singing

On the stump of a rotting old tree;

'Oh faith it grows cold, and the creeds they grow old,

And the world is nigh ready for me.'

The bells went on ringing, a spirit came singing,

And smiled as he crumbled the tree;

'Yon wood does but perish new seedlings to cherish,

And the world is too live yet for thee.'

by Charles Kingsley