Part 2 (1/2)

But still was left the little Saxon church, Unchanged save that the Norman owner gave New consecration in his patron's name, St. Martinus of Tours, a warrior saint Who guarded through the centuries his race.

Then in the War of Roses came the crash That brought extinction to the feudal name And desolation to its crumbling home.

And yet, though scarred by time and gray with age, The little church of Saxon days remained The emblem of a never-dying faith.

The years rolled by and then there came a day Which gave a new possessor to the place, A n.o.bleman in favour with that queen Who loved a witty tongue and ready sword When coupled with good looks and brave attire.

He built a great Elizabethan pile, The ground-plan shaped to form the royal E, Conforming to the fas.h.i.+on of the times When loyalty spoke even from silent stone.

And he, to please his lady's pious whim, (Though ten years wed, he called her Sweetheart still) Forbore to raze the chapel to the ground, But stayed with flying b.u.t.tress either side, Repaired the roof and made it to her mind.

And there they lie, both in one marble tomb On which their effigies with clasping hands Bear witness to an everlasting love.

And when vacation brings its hours of rest I sometimes sit within the Saxon church And muse upon the changes time has brought Save to the faith that reared the little shrine, And still builds churches ”in Fayre Jesu's name.”

Winter

'Tis winter and the darkening skies Awake regretful memories Of wooded hill and sunlit plain, Ringing with anthems to the sun Until his arching course was run And nightingales took up the strain.

The trees, then dense with leaves and flowers, Stood through the long and smiling hours, Housing an honest little folk, Throbbing with life by day and night, Whose voices, vibrant with delight, Of happy labour ever spoke.

The trees now spread their haggard arms, Bared of their pristine, leafy charms, To cold and unresponsive skies That neither smile nor weep, but chill With cold indifference, and kill Hope that all nature underlies.

A dreary moan floats on the wind From the gaunt oaks, that, ill defined, Show spectral shapes against the sky From which the fleeting day has flown While dead leaves on the earth are strown To mark the summer's mortuary.

Where are the thousand things of life That erstwhile made the place all rife With busy hum and restless wing And turmoil of a world of love?

The blackbird on her nest above, Below, the beetle tunnelling.

Gone with the happiness I knew Because the heavens were always blue, While the sun shone from day to day And winter was not. 'Twas as far And nebulous as yonder star That throws its cold and sickly ray

Where once a glorious flood of light Ceased only with the falling night.

Gloom hovers where triumphant joy Beatified each pa.s.sing hour, For Winter now with ruthless power Fulfils its mission to destroy.

_The Voice of Winter._

”I bring not death but rest to flower and tree, ”And nurse the flame divine, Vitality, ”That burns immortal since primeval night ”When the Creator said: 'Let there be light!'

”And loosed the sun upon his blazing way ”To roll for ever through an endless day.”

Pain and Death

Amid the fields of Asphodel Musing one day by chance, Imperious Jove Let memory rove And turned his gaze austere To where Arcadian shepherds dwell, The land of song and dance, Where Death was not And Time forgot To send the rolling year: Where man, untried by trouble's test, Found the supreme of life in rest.

Immortal man without a care Rivalled the G.o.ds above: Free, effortless, In sheer idlesse Aping divinity.

So he was made by Jove to share A mortal life and love By anguish tried And purified For Death's cold sanct.i.ty.