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The Delectable Day

The boy on the famous gray pony,

Just bidding good-bye at the door,

Plucking up maiden heart for the fences

Where his brother won honour of yore.

The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children,

And women as gentle as gay,—

Ah! how do we male hogs in armour

Deserve such companions as they?

by Charles Kingsley

The Dead Church

Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?

Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away?

Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,

The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter-day.

Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing;

Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain.

Weep, dear Lord, above thy bride low lying;

Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life and health again.

by Charles Kingsley

Easter Week

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,

While the wild birds build and sing.

by Charles Kingsley

The Song of The Little Baltung: AD 395

A harper came over the Danube so wide,

And he came into Alaric's hall,

And he sang the song of the little Baltung

To him and his heroes all.

How the old old Balt and the young young Balt

Rode out of Caucaland,

With the royal elephant's trunk on helm

And the royal lance in hand.

by Charles Kingsley

Andromeda

Over the sea, past Crete, on the Syrian shore to the southward,

Dwells in the well-tilled lowland a dark-haired AEthiop people,

Skilful with needle and loom, and the arts of the dyer and carver,

Skilful, but feeble of heart; for they know not the lords of Olympus,

Lovers of men; neither broad-browed Zeus, nor Pallas Athene,

Teacher of wisdom to heroes, bestower of might in the battle;

Share not the cunning of Hermes, nor list to the songs of Apollo.

Fearing the stars of the sky, and the roll of the blue salt water,

by Charles Kingsley

Hymn

Accept this building, gracious Lord,

No temple though it be;

We raised it for our suffering kin,

And so, Good Lord, for Thee.

Accept our little gift, and give

To all who here may dwell,

The will and power to do their work,

Or bear their sorrows well.

by Charles Kingsley

Young and Old

When all the world is young, lad,

And all the trees are green;

And every goose a swan, lad,

And every lass a queen;

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away!

Young blood must have its course, lad,

And every dog his day.

by Charles Kingsley

The Tide River

Clear and cool, clear and cool,

By laughing shallow and dreaming pool;

Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle and foaming weir;

Under the crag where the ouzel sings,

And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,

Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

by Charles Kingsley

A Farewell

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;

No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;

Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you,

For every day.

I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol

Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down

To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel

Than Shakespeare's crown.

by Charles Kingsley

Ballad: Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree

'Are you ready for your steeple-chase, Lorraine, Lorraine, Lorree?

Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Barum, Baree,

You're booked to ride your capping race to-day at Coulterlee,

You're booked to ride Vindictive, for all the world to see,

To keep him straight, to keep him first, and win the run for me.

Barum, Barum,' etc.

by Charles Kingsley

On The Death of A Certain Journal

So die, thou child of stormy dawn,

Thou winter flower, forlorn of nurse;

Chilled early by the bigot's curse,

The pedant's frown, the worldling's yawn.

Fair death, to fall in teeming June,

When every seed which drops to earth

Takes root, and wins a second birth

From steaming shower and gleaming moon.

by Charles Kingsley

The Night Bird: A Myth

A floating, a floating

Across the sleeping sea,

All night I heard a singing bird

Upon the topmost tree.

'Oh came you off the isles of Greece,

Or off the banks of Seine;

Or off some tree in forests free,

Which fringe the western main?'

by Charles Kingsley