Walter Richard Cassels
Walter Richard Cassels Poems
The dream fell on him one calm summer night,
Stealing amid the waving of the corn,
That waited, golden, for the harvest morn--
...
The day fades fast;
And backward ebbs the tide of light
From the far hills in billows bright,
Scattering foam, as they sweep past,
...
Turn thine eyes from me, Angel of Heaven--
Read not my soul, Angel of Heaven--
Sorrow is steeping my pale cheeks with weeping,
...
The King call'd forth his first-born, and took him by the hand,
'Come! boy, and see the people you must soon command:
...
There is a land whereon the sun's warm gaze,
God-like, all-seeing, falls right down through space,
...
O! well I mind the olden time,
The sweet, sweet olden time;
When I did long for eve all day,
And watch'd upon the new-mown grass
...
Far, far away, over land and sea,
When Winter comes with his cold, cold breath,
And chills the flowers to the sleep of death,
...
There sat a raven 'mid the pines so dark,
The pines so silent and so dark at morn
A ragged bird with feathers rough and torn,
...
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
My heart is true as steel,
Steady still in woe and weal,
...
The Grey-beard Winter sat alone and still,
Locking his treasures in the flinty earth;
And like a miser comfortless and chill,
...
Winds are sighing round the drooping eaves;
Sadly float the midnight hours away;
Dun and grey athwart the ivy-leaves,
...
The lights have faded from the little casement,
As though her closing eyes had brought on night;
And now she dreams--Ah! dreams supremely bright,
...
From what rock-hollow'd cavern deep in ocean,
Where jagged columns break the billow's beat,
Whirl'd upward by some wild mid-world commotion,
...
Time sets his footprints on our little Earth,
And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing
...
Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late;
Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead;
Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed;
...
1.
It was too sweet--such dreams do ever fade
When Sorrow shakes the sleeper from his rest--
...
Where art thou, oh! my Beautiful? Afar
I seek thee sadly, till the day is done,
And o'er the splendour of the setting sun,
...
Deep in the bosom of the ocean,
Where sunshine fades to twilight gloom,
The pure pearls lie, and the coral bloom
...
From the darksome earth-mine lifted,
From the clay and from the rock
Loosen'd out with many a shock;
Slowly from the clay-dross sifted
...
Walter Richard Cassels Biography
Walter Richard Cassels (London 4 September 1826 - 10 June 1907) is the speculated author of the anonymous work Supernatural Religion. Born in London to a British consular official, Walter spent most of his early life in India. In partnership with two of his brothers he later set up a business in Bombay. After serving in the legislative council of Bombay from 1863 to 1865, he returned to England.)
The Best Poem Of Walter Richard Cassels
The Sculptor
The dream fell on him one calm summer night,
Stealing amid the waving of the corn,
That waited, golden, for the harvest morn--
The dream fell on him through the still moonlight.
The land lay silent, and the new mown hay
Rested upon it like a dreamy sleep;
And stealing softly o'er each yellow heap,
The night-breeze bore sweet incense-breath away.
The dew lay thick upon the unstirr'd leaves;
The glow-worm glisten'd brightly as he pass'd;
The thrush still chaunted, but the swallows fast
Hied to their home beneath lone cottage eaves.
He had been straying through the land that day,
Dreaming of beauty as some dream of love;
And all the earth beneath, the heaven above,
In mirror'd glory on his spirit lay.
And, as he went, from every sight and sound,
From silence, from the sweetness in the air,
From earth, from heaven, from nature everywhere,
Gleam'd forth a deep dim thought and clasp'd him round.
The thought oppress'd him with a weary joy,
Seeking for ever for its perfect shape,
That from his eager eyes would still escape,
Flatter him onward--then his hopes destroy.
He sought it in the bosom of the hills;
He sought it in the silence of the woods,
Their sunny nooks and shady solitudes;
He sought it in the fountains and the rills.
He watch'd the stars come faintly through the skies;
And on his upturn'd brow the clear moon shone,
Flooding his heart like pale Endymion;
But still the thought hid dimly from his eyes;
Its voice came to him on the evening breeze,
That flutter'd faintly through his summer dreams--
He heard it through the flowing of the streams;
He heard it softly rustling through the trees.
Yet still the thought that murmur'd through his heart,
He found not anywhere about the land;
Ne'er saw its spirit shape before him stand,
Though from all nature it seem'd prone to start.
And thus he wander'd homeward, dreaming still
Of all the beauty that had haunted him,
With mystic meanings shadowy and dim,
By woodland, and by meadow, vale and hill:
He wander'd homeward, and in musing mood
Stay'd his slow steps beside a marble block,
Hewn from some far unstain'd Italian rock,
That for his shaping chisel waiting stood.
Then his heart spoke out to him, 'Not alone
This thought divine hides in the streams and woods,
Seeking expression through their solitudes,
Perchance e'en lies it in this unhewn stone.
It may be that the soul which fills all space,
And speaks up to us from each thing we see,
In words that are for ever mystery,
Within this Parian, too, hath resting-place.'
He gazed on, dreaming through the dim twilight,
And to his inner sight the marble grew
Clear and translucent, so that, gazing through,
A mystic shape form'd to his wondering sight,
That seem'd imprison'd in the Parian cell,
Seeking in vain release and utterance;
For evermore, with upward beaming glance,
Framing the words its lips could never tell.
The vision pass'd; but still with unseen power,
It stirr'd within his heart by night and day;
And swift to hew the prison walls away,
The Sculptor toil'd, love-strengthen'd, from that hour.
He wrought with patience, and at length, amazed,
Beheld the mystic form all perfect stand,
Released in beauty by his artist hand,
He scarce knew how, and wonder'd as he gazed.
It was a lovely form whose lifted arms
Yearn'd towards heaven with all its radiant frame,
As though the soul within on wings of flame
Up from the earth would waft its angel charms;
But still one touch retain'd it to the ground;
So that the love that beam'd up from its eyes
Flow'd evermore towards the distant skies,
And yet to earth the shape remain'd spell-bound.
The dream fell on him one calm summer night;
And thus in that fair form still heavenward turning
Eternal aspiration, endless yearning,
Stood now the Thought before his gladden'd sight.
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