JULIAN
FANE.

1827-1870.

AD MATREM, MARCH 13, 1870.

II.

So, like a wanderer from the world of shades,

Back to the firm earth and familiar skies,
Back to that light of love that never fades—
The unbroken sunshine of thy blissful eyes,
I come to greet thee on this happy day
That lets a fresh pearl on thy life appear;
That decks thy jewelled age with fresh array,
Of good deeds done within the circled year;
So art thou robed in majesty of grace,

In regal purple of pure womanhood;
Throned in thy high pre-eminence of place;
Sceptred and crowned a very Queen of Good.
Receive my blessing, perfect as thou art,

Queen of all good, and sovereign of my heart.

DAVID
GRAY.

1838-1861.

TO ROBERT BUCHANAN.

Now, while the long-delaying ash assumes

Its delicate April green, and loud and clear

Through the cool, yellow, mellow twilight glooms,
The thrush's song enchants the captive ear:

Now, while a shower is pleasant in the falling,

Stirring the still perfume that shakes around;

Now that doves mourn, and from the distance calling,

The cuckoo answers with a sovereign sound

Come, with thy native heart, O true and tried!

But leave all books; for what with converse high,

Flavoured with Attic wit, the time shall glide

On smoothly, as a river floweth by,

Or, as on stately pinion, through the gray

Evening, the culver cuts his liquid way!

DAVID GRAY. 1838-1861.

IN THE SHADOWS.

DIE down, O dismal day! and let me live.

And come, blue deeps! magnificently strewn
With coloured clouds-large, light, and fugitive-
By upper winds through pompous motions blown.
Now it is death in life-a vapour dense

Creeps round my window, till I cannot see
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens
Shagging the mountain-sides. O God! make free
This barren, shackled earth, so deathly cold-
Breathe gently forth Thy Spring, till Winter flies
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold
While she performs her 'customed charities.

I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare

O God! for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!

DAVID
GRAY.

1838-1861.

IN THE SHADOWS.

If it must be; if it must be, O God!

That I die young, and make no further moans;

If underneath the unrespective sod,

In unescutcheoned privacy, my bones

Must crumble soon,-then give me strength to bear

The last convulsive throe of too sweet breath!

I tremble from the edge of life, to dare

The dark and fatal leap, having no faith,
No glorious yearning for the Apocalypse.
But like a child that in the night-time cries
For light, I cry; forgetting the eclipse
Of knowledge, and our human destinies.
O peevish and uncertain soul obey

The law of life in patience till the Day.

DAVID
GRAY.

1838-1861.

IN THE SHADOWS.

OCTOBER'S gold is dim-the forests rot,

The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day

Is wrapped in damp. In mire of village way
The hedge-row leaves are stamped; and all forgot
The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn.

Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,

Weeps all her garnered fields, her empty folds,
And dripping orchards-plundered and forlorn.
The season is a dead one, and I die!

No more, no more for me the spring shall make

A resurrection in the earth, and shake

The death from out her heart-O God, I die!
The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe
Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!