A Celtic Psaltery by Alfred Perceval Graves
page 106 of 205 (51%)
page 106 of 205 (51%)
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No more purple-purling vintage.
No more usherings out of Hall By obsequious attendant; No more part, however small, In the Pageant's pomp resplendent! Just a perch of churchyard clay All the soil he now possesses; Heavily its burthen grey On his pulseless bosom presses. THE BARD'S DEATH-BED CONFESSION (After Huw Morus, 1622-1709, a Welsh Cavalier poet) Lord, hear my confession of life-long transgression! Weak-willed and too filled with Earth's follies am I To reach by the strait way of faith to Heaven's gateway, If Thou light not thither my late way. From Duty's hard high road by Beauty's soft by-road To Satan's, not Thy road, I wandered away. Thou hast seen, Father tender, Thou seest what a slender Return for Thy Talents I render. |
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