Part 31 (1/2)

Oh, I have lov'd ye more than may be told, And deem'd it fairy-gold,-- And fairy-silver,--that ye bear withal; Ye are so soft and small, I weep for joy to find ye here to-day So near to Heaven, and yet so far away, In our good ocean-s.h.i.+p, whose bows are wet with spray.

VII.

Ye are the cynosure of many eyes Bright-blue as English skies,-- The sailors' eyes that scan ye in a row, As if intent to show That this dear freight of mould and meadow-flower Which sails the sea, in suns.h.i.+ne and in shower, Is England's gift of love, which storms shall not devour.

VIII.

She sends ye forth in sadness and in joy, As one may send a toy To children's children, bred in other lands By love-abiding hands.

And, day by day, ye sail upon the foam To call to mind the sires' and mothers' home, Where babes, now grown to men, were wont of yore to roam.

IX.

In England's name, in Shakespeare's,--and in ours, Who bear these trusted flowers,-- There shall be heard a cheer from many throats, A rush and roar of notes, As loud, and proud, as those of heavenward birds; And they who till the ground and tend the herds Will read our thoughts therein, and clothe the same in words.

X.

For England's sake, for England once again, In pride and power and pain, For England, aye! for England in the girth Of all her joy and worth, A strong and clear, outspoken, undefined, And uncontroll'd wild shout upon the wind, Will greet these winsome flowers as friends of human-kind!

Sonnets.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

I.

ECSTASY.

I cannot sing to thee as I would sing If I were quickened like the holy lark With fire from Heaven and sunlight on his wing, Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark Renewed in rapture in the reddening air.

A thing of splendour do I deem him then, A feather'd frenzy with an angel's throat, A something sweet that somewhere seems to float 'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men.

He fills me with such wonder and despair!

I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright, As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun.

Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one, And do thou teach me, Love, to sing aright!

II.

VISIONS.

The Poet meets Apollo on the hill, And Pan and Flora and the Paphian Queen, And infant naads bathing in the rill, And dryad maids that dance upon the green, And fauns and Oreads in the silver sheen They wear in summer, when the air is still.

He quaffs the wine of life, and quaffs his fill, And sees Creation through its mask terrene.

The dead are wise, for they alone can see As see the bards,--as see, beyond the dust, The eyes of babes. The dead alone are just.