Then, although our darling treasures Then, although our once-loved pleasures Though the tomb looms in the distance, There is sunshine, and no winter, after all! D. F. Macarthy CCXII DUTY As the hardy oat is growing, Should the stream of being flow. CCXIII LINES D. F. Macarthy The lights o'er yonder snowy range, Before the dying eyes of day And morn spread still beyond her. Lo! heavenward now those gleams expire, The barrier-mountain, peak, and spire, Thus shine, O God! our mortal powers, A. De Vere CCXIV SPRING Once more, through God's high will and grace, Who knows not Spring? who doubts when blows The swallow doubts not; nor the rose Once more the cuckoo's call I hear; Rise up like water from the ground. The thorn, I know, once more is, white; The anemones in dubious light Are trembling like a bridal veil. By streams released that surging flow Smiles hour by hour on greener shades. The honey'd cowslip tufts one more I see her not-I feel her near, As charioted in mildest airs That urn of flowers, and lustral dews, Revives the weak, the old renews, And crowns with votive wreaths the dead. A. De Vere CCXV THANKS FOR A SUMMER'S DAY The time so tranquil is, and clear, That nowhere shall ye find, The air of passing wind. All trees and simples, great and small, Than they were painted on a wall, No more they move, or stir. The ample heaven of fabric sure, Bedecked is the sapphire arch With streaks of scarlet hue ; And preciously from end to end Damasked white and blue. Calm is the deep and purple sea, The ships becalmed upon the seas, The little busy humming bees, The dove with whistling wings so blue, Her purple pens turn many a hue Great is the calm, for everywhere The smoke goes upright in the air, What pleasure then to walk, and see, The perfect form of every tree The bells and circles on the waves, O sure it were a seemly thing, The praise of God to pray, and sing, All labourers draw home at even, "Thanks to the gracious God of Heaven, A. Hume [A Scotch poet of the middle of the sixteenth century.] CCXVI THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; My choir shall be the moonlit waves, Ev'n more than music, breathes of Thee. |