THE POET IN THE CITY

THE Poet stood in the sombre town,
And spake to his heart, and said,
"O weary prison, devised by man!
O seasonless place, and dead!"
His heart was sad, for afar he heard

The sound of the Spring's light tread.

He thought he saw in the pearly east

The pale March sun arise,
The happy housewife beneath the thatch,
With hand above her eyes,
Look out to the cawing rooks, that built
So near to the quiet skies.

Out of the smoke, and noise, and sin
The heart of the Poet cried :
“O God! but to be Thy laborer there,
On the gentle hill's green side,

To leave the struggle of want and wealth,

And the battle of lust and pride!"

He bent his ear, and he heard afar The growing of tender things,

The changeless days were so sad to him,
That the Poet's heart beat strong,
And he struggled as some poor caged lark,
And he cried: "How long, how long?
I have missed a spring I can never see,
And the singing of birds is gone!"

But when the time of the roses came,
And the nightingale hushed her lay,
The Poet, still in the dusty town,
Went quietly on his way -
A poorer poet by just one Spring,
And a richer man by one suffering.

Yet dream not such a spirit dies,
Though all its earthly shrine decay!
Transfigured under clearer skies,
He sings anew;

The frail soul-covering, racked with pain,
And scored with vigil, fades away,
The soul set free and young again
Glides upward through.

Weep not; but watch the moonlit air!
Perchance a glory like a star
May leave what hangs about him there,
And flash on us! . . .
Behold! the void is full of light,

The beams pierce heaven from bar to bar,
And all the hollows of the night
Grow luminous !

DE ROSIS HIBERNIS

AMBITIOUS Nile, thy banks deplore
Their Flavian patron's deep decay;
Thy Memphian pilot laughs no more
To see the flower-boat float away;
Thy winter-roses once were twined

Across the gala-streets of Rome,
And thou, like Omphale, couldst bind
The vanquished victor in his home.

But if the barge that brought thy store Had foundered in the Lybian deep, It had not slain thy glory more,

Nor plunged thy rose in salter sleep; Nor gods nor Cæsars wait thee now,

No jealous Pæstum dreads thy spring,

Crimson of the quince,
I saw her at the blossom-time,
And loved her ever since!
She swept the draughty pleasance,
The blooms had left the trees,
The whilst the birds sang canticles,
In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose,
Redness of the red,

She went to cut the blush-rose buds
To tie at the altar-head;
And some she laid in her bosom,
And some around her brows,
And, as she passed, the lily-heads
All becked and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy,

Yellow of the corn, The men were at the garnering, A-shouting in the morn; I chased her to a pippin-tree, The waking birds all whist, And oh ! it was the sweetest kiss That I have ever kiss'd.

Marjorie, mint, and violets

A-drying round us set,

'T was all done in the faïence-room

A-spicing marmalet;

On one tile was a satyr,

On one a nymph at bay,

Methinks the birds will scarce be home

To wake our wedding-day!

TWICKENHAM FERRY

"And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady,

And 't is but a penny to Twickenham
Town."

The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young,

With just a soft tang in the turn of his

tongue;

And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry,

And 't is but a penny to Twickenham
Town.