‘I will write you down some horridly-expressed verses which call themselves to the tune of “Allan Water” and “Rousseau’s Dream”; the first sketched in autumn, 1825, but undergoing changes for a long time, poor as is the result; the second written at W[illiams’s]. I have not shown them to anyone, and they may give you a sort of guess at the things my mind has been running upon.’ ‘On the Banks of Allan Water’ was his favourite air. [‘THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD PASSETH AWAY.’] ‘Ere the buds their stores deliver, Have ye watched the springtime gay? Have ye seen the sere leaves shiver In an autumn day? Have ye loved some flower appearing, Tulip, or pale lily tall, Day by day its head uprearing, But to mourn its fall? Have ye on the bosom rested Of some friend that seemed a god? Have ye seen her relics vested In their long abode? With the years that ye have numbered, With the flowers that gaily blow, With the friends whose sleep is slumbered, Ye shall perish too.’ [HEAVEN-IN-EARTH.] ‘Oh, can it be that this bright world Was made for such dull joys[53] as ours? Dwells there not aught in secret furled ‘Mid Nature’s holy bowers?[54] Is it for naught that things gone by Still hover o’er our wondering mind, And dreamy feelings, dimly high, A dwelling-place within us find? No: there are things of higher mould, Whose charmèd ways we heedless tread; And men even here a converse hold With those whom they shall meet when dead. Lord of the World, Almighty King, Thy shadow resteth over all: Or where the Saints Thy terrors sing, Or where the waves obey Thy call.’ To this productive year belong also some haunting unfinished lines which might bear for a title The Summons. Of course none of these three poems of Hurrell’s appeared, later, in _Lyra Apostolica_; nor elsewhere than in the _Remains_. ‘To-night my dreary course is run, And at the setting of the sun, Far beneath the western wave I seek my quiet grave, Amid the silent halls of Fate, Where lie in long and shadowy state The embryos of the things that be Waiting the hour of destiny. I hear thy magic voice; I hear it, and rejoice…. To-morrow: ere the hunter’s horn Has waked the echoes of the morn….’