To them that knew her, there is vital flame ON THE TOMBSTONE OF JAMES CHRISTOPHER WILSON, 266 Thou our beloved and light of Earth hast crossed GORDON OF KHARTOUM, 266 Of men he would have raised to light he fell: J. C. M., 267 A fountain of our sweetest, quick to spring THE EMPEROR FREDERICK OF OUR TIME, 267 With Alfred and St. Louis he doth win ISLET THE DACHS, 267 Our Islet out of Helgoland, dismissed ON HEARING THE NEWS FROM VENICE, 268 Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak, HAWARDEN, 269 When comes the lighted day for men to read AT THE FUNERAL, 270 Her sacred body bear: the tenement ANGELA BURDETT-COUTTS, 270 Long with us, now she leaves us; she has rest THE YEAR’S SHEDDINGS, 270 The varied colours are a fitful heap: A STAVE OF ROVING TIM (ADDRESSED TO CERTAIN FRIENDLY TRAMPS.) I THE wind is East, the wind is West, Blows in and out of haven; The wind that blows is the wind that’s best, And croak, my jolly raven! If here awhile we jigged and laughed, The like we will do yonder; For he’s the man who masters a craft, And light as a lord can wander. So, foot the measure, Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven. II You live in rows of snug abodes, With gold, maybe, for counting; And mine’s the beck of the rainy roads Against the sun a-mounting. I take the day as it behaves, Nor shiver when ’tis airy; But comes a breeze, all you are on waves, Sick chickens o’ Mother Carey! So, now for next, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven. III Sweet lass, you screw a lovely leer, To make a man consider. If you were up with the auctioneer, I’d be a handsome bidder. But wedlock clips the rover’s wing; She tricks him fly to spider; And when we get to fights in the Ring, It’s trumps when you play outsider. So, wrench and split, cries Roving Tim, And croak, my jolly raven! The wind according to its whim Is in and out of haven. IV