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
Takes root, and wins a second
From steaming shower and gleaming moon.
Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;
Thou rain of God, make fat the land;
That roots which parch in burning
May bud to flower and fruit again.
To grace, perchance, a fairer
In mightier lands beyond the sea,
While honour falls to such as
From hearts of heroes yet unborn,
Who in the light of fuller day,
Of purer science, holier laws,
Bless us, faint heralds of their cause,
Dim beacons of their glorious way.
Failure?
While tide-floods rise and
Round cape and isle, in port and cove,
Resistless, star-led from above:
What though our tiny wave recoil?
Eversley, 1852.
Charles Kingsley
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