Pleasant Prophecies

A day of gladness yet will dawn,
    Though when I cannot say;
Perhaps it may be Thursday week,
    Perhaps some other day,--

When man, freed from the bond of clothes,
    And needing no more food,
Shall never pull his neighbour's nose,
    But be extremely good.

When Love and Nobleness shall live
    Next door to Truth and Right,
While Reverence shall rent a room,
    Upon the second flight.

And wishes shall be horses then,
    And beggars shall be kings;
And all the people shall admire
    This pleasant state of things.

But if it seems a mystery,
    And you're inclined to doubt it,
Just ask your local poet.    He
    Will tell you all about it.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Crown Of Years

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

After Many Days

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Winter At St. Andrews

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

The City Of Golf

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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Trafalgar Square

These verses have I pilfered like a bee
Out of a letter from my C. C. C.
    In London, showing what befell him there,
With other things, of interest to me.

One page described a night in open air
He spent last summer in Trafalgar Square,
    With men and women who by want are driven
Thither for lodging, when the nights are fair.

No roof there is between their heads and heaven,
No warmth but what by ragged clothes is given,
    No comfort but the company of those
Who with despair, like them, have vainly striven.

On benches there uneasily they doze,
Snatching brief morsels of a poor repose,
    And if through weariness they might sleep sound,
Their eyes must open almost ere they close.

With even tramp upon the paven ground,
Twice eve...

Robert Fuller Murray

Hope Deferred

When the weary night is fled,
And the morning sky is red,
Then my heart doth rise and say,
'Surely she will come to-day.'

In the golden blaze of noon,
'Surely she is coming soon.'
In the twilight, 'Will she come?'
Then my heart with fear is dumb.

When the night wind in the trees
Plays its mournful melodies,
Then I know my trust is vain,
And she will not come again.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Presentiment

It seems a little word to say--
    _Farewell_--but may it not, when said,
    Be like the kiss we give the dead,
Before they pass the doors for aye?

Who knows if, on some after day,
    Your lips shall utter in its stead
    A welcome, and the broken thread
Be joined again, the selfsame way?

The word is said, I turn to go,
    But on the threshold seem to hear
            A sound as of a passing bell,
Tolling monotonous and slow,
    Which strikes despair upon my ear,
            And says it is a last farewell.

Robert Fuller Murray

Written In Friars-Carse Hermitage, On Nithside. December, 1788.

    Thou whom chance may hither lead,
    Be thou clad in russet weed,
    Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
    Grave these counsels on thy soul.

    Life is but a day at most,
    Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
    Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour.
    Fear not clouds will always lour.
    As Youth and Love with sprightly dance
    Beneath thy morning star advance,
    Pleasure with her siren air
    May delude the thoughtless pair:
    Let Prudence bless enjoyment's cup,
    Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

    As thy day grows warm and high,
    Life's meridian flaming nigh,
    Dost thou spurn the humble vale?
    Life's proud summits would'st thou scale?
    Check thy climbing step, elate,
    Evils lurk in felon wait:
  ...

Robert Burns

Vanity Of Vanities

Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away.
Ye shall pass and be forgot,
And your place shall know you not.

Other generations rise,
With the same hope in their eyes
That in yours is kindled now,
And the same light on their brow.

They shall see the selfsame sun
That your eyes now gaze upon,
They shall breathe the same sweet air,
And shall reck not who ye were.

Yet they too shall fade at last
In the twilight of the past,
They and you alike shall be
Lost from the world's memory.

Then, while yet ye breathe and live,
Drink the cup that life can give.
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In the years that pass away,

Ere the golden bowl be broken,
Ere ye pass and leave no token,
Ere the silver cord be loosed,

Robert Fuller Murray

Birth-Day Ode, 1796.

    And wouldst thou seek the low abode
        Where PEACE delights to dwell?
    Pause Traveller on thy way of life!
    With many a snare and peril rife
        Is that long labyrinth of road:
    Dark is the vale of years before
        Pause Traveller on thy way!
    Nor dare the dangerous path explore
Till old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.

    Not he who comes with lanthorn light
    Shall guide thy groping pace aright
        With faltering feet and slow;
    No! let him rear the torch on high
    And every maze shall meet thine eye,
        And every snare and every foe;
    Then with steady step and strong,
    Traveller, shalt thou march along.

    Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall,
    Regard not thou her tempting ...

Robert Southey