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.     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.