On The Death Of Leopold, King Of The Belgians[1]

A King is dead!    Another master mind
    Is summoned from the world-wide council hall.
Ah, for some seer, to say what links behind -
    To read the mystic writing on the wall!

Be still, fond man:    nor ask thy fate to know.
    Face bravely what each God-sent moment brings.
Above thee rules in love, through weal and woe,
    Guiding thy kings and thee, the King of kings.

Windsor Castle,
    November 10, 1865.

Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley was an English writer, historian, and clergyman born on June 12, 1819, in Holne, Devon. He was associated with the Christian Socialist movement and was a friend of prominent figures such as Charles Darwin. Kingsley is best known for his historical novels, including 'Westward Ho!' and 'Hypatia,' as well as his children's book 'The Water-Babies.' His works often explore social issues and aim to contribute to societal reform. Kingsley died on January 23, 1875, in Eversley, Hampshire.

Charles Kingsley

The Tide River

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

The Day Of The Lord

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

The Outlaw

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

A Parable From Liebig

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Death Of Sir John.

What news to all alike brings startling sorrow?
And he is dead, the vigorous chieftain dead?
Nor e'en for him would death still brook to-morrow?
No more shall followers vaunt and foemen dread;
No more by him the hot debate be led;
No more the lively tale, the clever jest
Of him the State's most skilful, ablest head,
Albeit not her sternest, not her best,
But such is over now, then let his ashes rest.

When all was anarchy, he seized the reins,
And broke and trained the fiery coursers young,
And from so many wide and fair domains
One great Dominion 'neath his guidance sprung,
Which he made glorious, till the nations rung
With our renown and his immortal name.
But now his day was o'er; his work was done.
'Twas well. - He lived to hear his land's acclaim,

W. M. MacKeracher

On The Death Of A Certain Journal[1]

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.

Fall warm, fall fast, thou mellow rain;
Thou rain of God, make fat the land;
That roots which parch in burning sand
May bud to flower and fruit again.

To grace, perchance, a fairer morn
In mightier lands beyond the sea,
While honour falls to such as we
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.
...

Charles Kingsley

On The Funeral Of Charles The First, At Night, In St George's Chapel, Windsor.

    The castle clock had tolled midnight:
With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches' light,
His corse in earth we laid.

    The coffin bore his name, that those
Of other years might know,
When earth its secrets should disclose,
Whose bones were laid below.

    "Peace to the dead" no children sung,
Slow pacing up the nave, -
No prayers were read, no knell was rung,
As deep we dug his grave.

    We only heard the winter's wind,
In many a sullen gust,
As, o'er the open grave inclined,
We murmured, "Dust to dust!"

    A moonbeam from the arch's height
Streamed, as we placed the stone;
The long aisles started into light,
And all the windows shone.

    We thought we saw the banners then,
That shook...

William Lisle Bowles

The King Of England

(June 24th, 1902)

In that eclipse of noon when joy was hushed
    Like the bird's song beneath unnatural night,
And Terror's footfall in the darkness crushed
    The rose imperial of our delight,
Then, even then, though no man cried "He comes,"
    And no man turned to greet him passing there,
    With phantom heralds challenging renown
        And silent-throbbing drums
    I saw the King of England, hale and fair,
    Ride out with a great train through London town.

Unarmed he rode, but in his ruddy shield
    The lions bore the dint of many a lance,
And up and down his mantle's azure field
    Were strewn the lilies plucked in famous France.
Before him went with banner floating wide
    The yeoman breed that served his honour best,
    And ...

Henry John Newbolt

The Dead King

Who in the Realm to-day lays down dear life for the sake of a land more dear?
And, unconcerned for his own estate, toils till the last grudged sands have run?
Let him approach. It is proven here
Our King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.

For to him, above all, was Life good, above all he commanded
Her abundance full-handed.
The peculiar treasure of Kings was his for the taking:
All that men come to in dreams he inherited waking:,

His marvel of world-gathered armies, one heart and all races;
His seas 'neath his keels when his war-castles foamed to their places;
The thundering foreshores that answered his heralded landing;
The huge lighted cities adoring, the assemblies upstanding;
The Councils of Kings called in haste to learn how he was mind...

Rudyard

The Coronation

At Westminster, hid from the light of day,
Many who once had shone as monarchs lay.

Edward the Pious, and two Edwards more,
The second Richard, Henrys three or four;

That is to say, those who were called the Third,
Fifth, Seventh, and Eighth (the much self-widowered),

And James the Scot, and near him Charles the Second,
And, too, the second George could there be reckoned.

Of women, Mary and Queen Elizabeth,
And Anne, all silent in a musing death;

And William's Mary, and Mary, Queen of Scots,
And consort-queens whose names oblivion blots;

And several more whose chronicle one sees
Adorning ancient royal pedigrees.

- Now, as they drowsed on, freed from Life's old thrall,
And heedless, save of things exceptional,

Sai...

Thomas Hardy