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FLOWER of the medlar,

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 ber bosom,

And some around her brows, And, as she passed, the lily-heads

All becked and made their bows.

“ And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye

so steady,
And 't is but a penny to Twickenham

The ferryman 's slim and the ferryman's

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


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.

“ Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's I'm for the

ferry," (The briar's in bud and the sun going

down) “ And it's late as it is and I have n't a

penny Oh ! how can I get me to Twickenham

Town ?She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she

look'd sweet As the little pink flower that grows in

the wheat, With her cheeks like a rose and her lips

like a cherry – “It's sure but you're welcome to

Twickenham Town.”

Marjorie, mint, and violets

A-drying round us set, 'Twas 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!

“ Ahoy! and O-ho!” – You're too late

for the ferry, (The briar's in bud and the sun has

gone down) And he's not rowing quick and he's not

rowing steady ; It seems quite a journey to Twicken

ham Town. “ Ahoy! and O-ho !” you may call as

you will ; The young moon is rising o'er Petersham



“ AHOY! and O-ho! and it's who's for And, with Love like a rose in the stern of the ferry ?

the wherry, (The briar's in bud and the sun going There's danger in crossing to Twickdown)

enham Town.


IF you be that May Margaret

That lived on Kendal Green,
Then where's that sunny hair of yours
That crowned


like a queen ? That

sunny hair is dim, lad, They said was like a crownThe red gold turned to gray, lad,

The night a ship went down.

It sang in the golden moonlight

From out the woodland hill.
I opened the window gently,

And all was dreamy dew –
And oh ! the bird, my darling,

Was singing, singing of you !


If you be yet May Margaret,

May Margaret now as then,
Then where's that bonny smile of yours

That broke the hearts of men ?
The bonny smile is wan, lad,

That once was glad as day And oh! 't is weary smiling

To keep the tears away.

I think of you in the day-time;

I dream of you by night -
I wake would you were near me !

And hot tears blind my sight.
I hear a sigh in the lime-tree,

The wind is floating through,
And oh! the night, my darling,

Is longing, longing for you.
Nor think I can forget you !

I could not though I would !
I see you in all around me,

The stream, the night, the wood;
The flowers that sleep so gently,

The stars above the blue,
Oh! heaven itself, my darling,

Is praying, praying for you.

If you be yet May Margaret,

As yet you swear to me,
Then where's that proud, cold heart of

That sent your love to sea ?
Ah! me, that heart is broken,

The proud cold heart has bled For one light word outspoken,

For all the love unsaid.


Then Margaret, my Margaret,

If all you say be true,
Your hair is yet the sunniest gold,

Your eyes the sweetest blue.
And dearer yet and fairer yet

For all the coming years The fairer for the waiting,

The dearer for the tears !

TO-DAY, what is there in the air
That makes December seem sweet May ?

There are no swallows anywhere,

Nor crocuses to crown your hair, And hail you down my garden way. Last night the full moon's frozen stare

Struck me, perhaps ; or did you say Really,—you'd come, sweet friend and fair !



(FROM THE SWEDISH) Last night the nightingale waked me,

Last night when all was still ;

To-day is here: come ! crown to-day

With Spring's delight or Spring's despair,
Love cannot bide old Time's delay :-
Down my glad gardens light winds play,
And my whole life shall bloom and bear


Walter Herries Pollock
BELOW THE HEIGHTS I waited till the evening light

Upon their heads descended ;
I sat at Berne, and watched the chain They caught it on their glittering height,
Of icy peaks and passes,

And held it there suspended.
That towered like gods above the plain,
In stern majestic masses.

I saw the red spread o'er the white,

How like a maiden's blushing,

Till all were hid in rosy light

That seemed from heaven rushing ;

We lightly think of virtue,
Enjoyment cannot hurt you.

The dead white snow was flushed with life,

As if a new Pygmalion
Had sought to find himself a wife

In stones that saw Deucalion.

“Ye love. Hear then of chivalry,
Of gallant truth and constancy.'

We find new loves the meetest,
And stolen kisses sweetest.

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Too soon the light began to wane ;

“ Voices ye have. Then should ye sing It lingered soft and tender,

In praise of heaven's mighty king.” And the snow-giants sank again

We deem it is our duty Into their cold dead splendor.

To chant our darlings' beauty. And, as I watched the last faint glow, “ Strait are the gates of worldly pleasure ; I turned as pale as they did,

The joy beyond no soul can measure. And sighed to think that on the snow

Alas! we are but mortal,
The rose so quickly faded.

And much prefer the portal.

“ Nay, sons : then must I leave ye so;

But lost will be your souls, I trow.” I FOUND him openly wearing her token ;

Nay, Father, make you merry ; I knew that her troth could never be

Come, drawer, bring some sherry. broken ; I laid my hand on the hilt of my sword,

“Me drink? Old birds are not unwary He did the same, and he spoke no word ;

Still less - Ha — well — 't is fine canary. I faced him with his villainy ;

Mark how his old blood prances He laughed, and said, “ She gave it me.”

A stoup for Father Francis ! We searched for seconds, they soon were found;

“ Your wine, my sons, is wondrous good, They measured our swords ; they measured And hath been long time in the wood.” the ground;

Mark how his old eye dances They held to the deadly work too fast;

More wine for Father Francis ! They thought to gain our place at last. We fought in the sheen of a wintry wood ; “A man, my sons — a man, I say, The fair white snow was red with his Might well drink here till judgment-day.” blood;

Now for soft words and glances But his was the victory, for, as he died,

But where is Father Francis ? He swore by the rood that he had not lied.

“ Heed me, my sons, I pray, no more ; FATHER FRANCIS

I always sleep upon the floor.”

Alas! for old wine's chances ; “I COME your sin-rid souls to shrive ;

A shutter for Father Francis ! Is this the way wherein ye live ?”

Michael Field


SCENE. – A room on the northern bank of the


Canute. She dared not wait my com-

ing, and shall look

No more upon my face.

A vacancy,
A blank ! that scarf left trailing on the

A shred too of her robe, - I must have

trampled, Have hurt her, as I thrust her off. A


A tag, and is it thus that women suffer ? We can inflict so little on such natures ; We cannot make reprisals. Slavish tears For Edric, and, 0 Hel! - a bloody

gleam Across her eyes, when I proclaimed the

rights Of Edmund's children. I am cut adrift, Far, far from the great, civilizing God, Dull, speechless, unappraised. [A voice singing.) Is that a child At babble with his vespers ?-Silver sweet ! It minds me of the holy brotherhood, Chanting adown the banks. As yesterday I see all clear, how as they moved they

chanted, And made a mute procession in the stream.

[Gazing abstractedly on the water.] Merrily sang the monks of Ely, As Canute the king passed by. Row to the shore, knights, said the king,

And let us hear the Churchmen sing. Still are they singing ? It was Candlemas, My queen sat splendid at the prow and lis

tened With heaving breast. 'T was then the

passion seized me To emulate, to let her know my ear Had common pleasure with her, and I

thrilled The story out. The look she turned on

And move on slowly to me ..

. . Up the stair. Without the door. A wail, a litany !

Enter Child singiny.
Child. Miserere mei, Deus, secundam

magnam misericordiam tuam ; Et secundum multitudinem miserationum

tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam. Can. How perfectly he sings the

music! Child, Who art thou with that voice, those dying

cheeks ? Art thou an angel sent to wring my heart, Or is it mortal woe ? Thine arms are

full. Child. Green, country herbs, they say,

will staunch a wound, And I have run about the fields and

gathered Those I could catch up quickly :— for the

blood Was leaping all the while. But here is

clary, The blessed thistle, yarrow, sicklewort, And all-heal red as gore. I knew a wood So dark and cool, I crept for lily-leaves ; Then it grew lonely, and I lost the way. But, oh, you must not beat me ; it is done. Father, I stabbed him, throw


the whip ! Now God will scourge me.

So I plucked the flowers, And sang for

mercy in the holy words Priest Sampson taught me, Miserere ! Can.

This Is Edric's child, the little murderer, Who did my deed of treason. Edmund,

turn Those trustful eyes from off me. Child.

Take me back. He will be dead ... He fell, O father,

fell, And when I put my cheek against his side, Gave a great pant. Let's pray for him

together. Can you sing Miserere? For I did it, And then he looked . . . Once in the ivy

tod I caught an owl, and hurt its wing. 'T was

me !


The choir shall sing this music. I resolved
In the glory of the verse to civilize
My blood, to sweeten it, to give it law,
To curb my wild thoughts with the rein of

Row to the shore! So pleasantly it ran,
A ripple on the wave.

I grew ambitious To be a scholar like King Alfred, gather Wise men about me, in myself possess A treasure, an enchantment. For

instant I looked round royally, and felt a king: The abbey-chant, the stream, the meadow

land, The willows glimmering in the sun ;

poet Wins things to come so close. A plash, a

gurgle ! There's a black memory for the river

now; And hark ! strange, solemn, Latin words

that toll,

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go ?

One, two, three, on my head.

His frightened eyes ; the notes are on his Can.

Cease! From these lips, lips,
White, childish penitents, how awful His arm still round my shoulder.

The wild avowal of their treachery.

Sharply flows Child, it was I who struck your uncle's The Thames now he is dead ; the rush, the

; side,

hum, Who falsely kissed him ; it was I who set Are like a conscience haunting me without. Your father on this wickedness ; 't was I I cannot bear it. I will fling him forth Who drove your frantic innocence to work To the engulfing river, and forget him. The sin of my conception. Can you learn Rank, pagan impulse! I would learn the That I alone am guilty, and God's wrath

prayer, Will visit me with judgment ?

Recall the gracious song,

- and stormy Child.

Come along,

sagas And take me where he is. How can I Come hurtling through my brain. I am a I do not know the path or time of day.

stranger The leaves are fading. Can the blood To our sweet Saviour Christ ; I cannot pray ; flow long

I love the slaughter of my enemies, Before it kills ? I saw it spirt and jump ; And to exact full vengeance. Little one, I could not see it now. I ran and ran. Thou shalt have fair, white cere-cloth, and Perchance I stayed too long about the fields.

a circlet 'T is dark ; no trees and hedges. He is gone, Of purest gold. Now that I look on thee, And I am damned forever ; the fresh herbs It grows soft in my heart as when they Could once have saved me.

chanted Can.

He is chill and fainting ; Across the stream, — Canute the king passed Give me these hands.

by, Child. I am not much afraid.

And listened. They shall sing about thy Before I struck at him my skin was hot ;

grave. Now dew is falling on me; it is cool. [He bows himself over the child and weeps.] Let me lie in your arms where I can look Up at the sky. There's some one . . . and

THE BURIAL OF ROBERT So kindly. Oh, he smiles down all the way,

Quite golden in my eyes.
He sees the moon.

UPON St. Michael's Isle How pale and cold he's growing! All the They laid him for awhile flowers

That he might feel the Ocean's full emAre slipping down. I cannot bear his

brace, weight.

And wedded be 'Tis condemnation. There is just a spot

To that wide sea Here on his garment, one bright drop of The subject and the passion of his race. blood,

As Thetis, from some lovely underSprinkling his spirit ; he is saved ; on him

ground It is the very mark of Christ ; on me

Springing, she girds him round The blot that makes illegible my name

With lapping sound I’ the book of life.

And silent space : Child.

If I should fall asleep, Then, on more honor bent, It will not matter, for I could not see

She sues the firmament, The healing plants by night; besides, my And bids the hovering, western clouds comeyes

bine Will open wide at morning. I must hold To spread their sabled amber on her lusThe blessed thistle in my hand, and pray ;

trous brine.
And God may so forgive me. Miserere !
Can. The child is dying on my breast.

It might not be
He closes

He should lie free

he grows

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