Charles Kingsley

A floating, a
Across the sleeping sea,
All night I heard a singing
Upon the topmost tree

There stood a low and ivied roof,
As gazing rustics tell,
In times of chivalry and song'Yclept the holy well
Above the ivies' branchlets

And should she die, her grave should
Upon the bare top of a sunny hill,
Among the moorlands of her own fair land,
Amid a ring of old and moss-grown

Oh, forth she went like a braw, braw
To meet her winsome groom,
When she was aware of twa bonny
Sat biggin' in the broom

See the land, her Easter keeping,
Rises as her Maker rose
Seeds, so long in darkness sleeping,
Burst at last from winter snows

Over the
Drank I with heroes,
Under the Donau bank,
Warm in the snow trench:

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
The summer's night beneath the moone pale,