The Rainbow and the Rose | Page 7

her poets' praises, What but the pastoral face, the
fruitful, beautiful breast? Are not your poets' meadows starred with the
English daisies? Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an
English nest? Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the
fern-brake in shadow, Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the
marsh and the mere, Are they not English woods, dear English
marshland and meadow? Have not your poets loved you? England, are
you not dear?
Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom,
Living

amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
Downs where the
white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom, Roads that wind through
the twilight up to the lights of home. Lanes that are white with
hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver, Hollows where caged winds
slumber, moorlands where winds wake free, Sowing and reaping and
gleaning, spring and torrent and river, Are they not more, by worlds,
than the whole of the world can be?
Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way, Coign of your
foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves, Leaf of your
peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway, But in our hearts is
sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves? Is not each bough in your
orchards, each cloud in the skies above you, Is not each byre or
homestead, furrow or farm or fold,
Dear as the last dear drops of the
blood in the hearts that love you, Filling those hearts till the love is
more than the heart can hold? Therefore the song breaks forth from the
depths of the hidden fountain Singing your least frail flower, your
raiment of seas and skies, Singing your pasture and cornfield, fen and
valley and mountain, England, desire of my heart, England, delight of
mine eyes! Take my song too, my country: many a son and debtor

Pays you in praise and homage out of your gifts' full store; Life of my
life, my England, many will praise you better,
None, by the God that
made you, ever can love you more!
SUMMER SONG.
THERE are white moon daisies in the mist of the meadow
Where the
flowered grass scatters its seeds like spray,
There are purple orchis by
the wood-ways' shadow,
There are pale dog-roses by the white
highway;
And the grass, the grass is tall, the grass is up for hay,

With daisies white like silver and buttercups like gold,
And it's oh!
for once to play thro' the long, the lovely day, To laugh before the year
grows old!
There is silver moonlight on the breast of the river
Where the willows
tremble to the kiss of night,
Where the nine tall aspens in the meadow

shiver,
Shiver in the night wind that turns them white.
And the
lamps, the lamps are lit, the lamps are glow-worms light, Between the
silver aspens and the west's last gold.
And it's oh! to drink delight in
the lovely lonely night,
To be young before the heart grows old!
THE LOWER ROOM.
How soft the lamplight falls
On pictures, books,
And pleasant
coloured walls
And curtains drawn!
How happily one looks
On
glowing flame and ember;
Ah, why should one remember
Dew and
dawn!
Here age and wisdom sit
Calm and discreet,
Life and the fruit of it

Are here in truth,
Whose gathering once was sweet--
Wisdom
and age! Well met!
Yet neither can forget
Folly and youth!
SONG.
THE summer down the garden walks
Swept in her garments bright;

She touched the pale still lily stalks
And crowned them with
delight;
She breathed upon the rose's head
And filled its heart with
fire,
And with a golden carpet spread
The path of my desire.
The larkspurs stood like sentinels
To greet her as she came,
Soft
rang the Canterbury bells
The music of her name.
She passed across
the happy land
Where all dear dreams flower free;
She took my true
love by the hand
And led her out to me.
MAY SONG.
BIRDS in the green of my garden
Blackbirds and throstle and wren,

Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's
And so to your
singing again!
Birds in my blossoming orchard,
Chaffinch and
goldfinch and lark,

Preen your bright wings, little happy live things;

The May trees grow white in the park!

Birds in the leafy wet woodlands,
Cuckoo and nightingale brown,

Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground--
The rain on green
leaves dripping down!
Fresh with the rain of the May-time,
Rich
with the promise of June,
Deep in her heart, where the little leaves
part,
Love, like a bird, sings in tune!
V.
TO IRIS.
IF I might build a palace, fair
With every joy of soul and sense,

And set my heart as sentry there
To guard your happy innocence--

If I might plant a hedge so strong
No creeping sorrow could writhe
through,
And find my whole life not too long
To give, to make your
hedge for you--
If I could teach the wandering air
To bring no sounds that were not
sweet,
Could teach the earth that only fair
Untrodden