Explore "On the Death of a Certain Journal" by Charles Kingsley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.
Failure? While tide-floods rise and boil / Round cape and isle, in port and cove, / Resistless, star-led from above: / What though our tiny wave recoil?
Eversley, 1852.