From sea to stream the salmon roam;
         Sing heigh-ho! 
From sea to stream the salmon roam;
Each finds a mate, and leads her home;
      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! 
   Young maids must marry.

The sun’s a bridegroom, earth a bride;
         Sing heigh-ho! 
They court from morn till eventide: 
The earth shall pass, but love abide. 
      Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho! 
   Young maids must marry.

Eversley, 1847.

A MARCH

   Dreary East winds howling o’er us;
   Clay-lands knee-deep spread before us;
   Mire and ice and snow and sleet;
   Aching backs and frozen feet;
   Knees which reel as marches quicken,
   Ranks which thin as corpses thicken;
   While with carrion birds we eat,
   Calling puddle-water sweet,
As we pledge the health of our general, who fares as rough as we: 
What can daunt us, what can turn us, led to death by such as he?

Eversley, 1848.

A LAMENT

The merry merry lark was up and singing,
   And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,
   When my child’s laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
   And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
   Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.

Eversley, 1848.

THE NIGHT BIRD:  A MYTH

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

’Oh came you off the isles of Greece,
Or off the banks of Seine;
Or off some tree in forests free,
Which fringe the western main?’

’I came not off the old world
Nor yet from off the new—­
But I am one of the birds of God
Which sing the whole night through.’

’Oh sing, and wake the dawning—­
Oh whistle for the wind;
The night is long, the current strong,
My boat it lags behind.’

’The current sweeps the old world,
The current sweeps the new;
The wind will blow, the dawn will glow
Ere thou hast sailed them through.’

Eversley, 1848.

THE DEAD CHURCH

Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing? 
   Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away? 
Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,
   The Lent is past, thy Passion here, but not thine Easter-day.

Peace, faint heart, though the night be dark and sighing;
   Rest, fair corpse, where thy Lord himself hath lain. 
Weep, dear Lord, above thy bride low lying;
   Thy tears shall wake her frozen limbs to life and health again.

Eversley, 1848.