Westminster Abbey
October 12, 1892
GIB DIESEN TODTEN MIR HERAUS! [Don Carlos]
(The Minster speaks)
Bring me my dead!
To me that have grown, Stone laid upon stone, As the stormy brood Of English blood Has waxed and spread And filled the world, With sails unfurled; With men that may not lie; With thoughts that cannot die. Bring me my dead!
Bring me my dead!
And oh! sad wedded mourner, seeking still
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Dear wife, for more than thirty years
Have you and I, hand clasped in hand, Sometimes all smiles, sometimes in bitter tears, Wended our way through the strange land Of living men; until with silvering hair, And graver mien and steps more slow, Adown the strand of age we face To the still ocean, and beyond time's flow. True wife, housemother, worn with many cares,
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"Thy servant slew the lion and the bear,
Wherefore, O king, he will in no wise fear The great sword, or the weaver's beam-like spear, Of this uncircumscised Philistine."
O Tuscan! that eke smote thy Philistine,
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Sometime, maybe March 1869, Huxley quoted to Tyndall a poem he had composed when a boy, a "not striking physiological verse":
Labour is worship, so some sage has said
And surely it preserves from many an evil For though it may not lift to Heaven the head It keeps the heart from wandering to the Devil! |