Viator.

Is this the February air

That breathes in fragrance on my brow?
So soft, methinks, 'twould never dare
To nip the bloom or whirl the snow;
No shadow-hint of treachery
Lurks in the clear enlivened sky.

The speckled arum-spike begins

His crumpled glistening cap to thrust; Blithe on the road the dry leaf spins,

The yew is packed with yellow dust; Beneath the elm small things are seen That star the dyke with lively green.

Where smoothly dips the sheltered lea,
The merry crested plovers run,
Or lost in dreamy reverie

Hoist their long wings to feel the sun;
Then wheel with melancholy cry,

To lessen in the western sky.

The eyes that track them draw the soul
To fly, to follow where they go;

They came from where the torrents roll

Where those vext lands were dim with snow;

They little reck what ways they tread,

Or by what waters they are fed.

Huge toppling clouds are piled in air;
A bluff, in billowy vapour rolled,
Faint summits perilously fair,

With thunderous base of sullen gold.
I thread in thought the cloudland through
To win the upper purer blue.

The chestnuts by the timbered grange
Are standing as they stood before,
Yet somewhat delicate and strange

Informs them they are old no more; A hundred times I passed this way; What spirit makes them new to-day? The soul puts on her summer dress,

And, tired awhile of scheme and gain, Clothes with delight the wilderness,

And dreams that she is pure again; Then idly wondering, tries her wing, Only content to soar and sing.

Out of the woods sweet spirits call— "Here be at rest, with all forgiven: Thy burden galls thee; let it fall,

And take the flowery road to heaven; Thou lingerest in the stony way, Custom, not honour, bids thee stay."

"Nay, nay," I answer, "I have heard, As in some half-remembered dream, A note that shames the jocund bird,

A truer voice than wind or stream; Ye know not and ye may not know, Ye aid me, cheer me ere I go."

The birds sail home; the mouldering tower With measured chime tolls out the day; Close with the irrevocable hour;

Make thy brief thanks; thy vespers pay; To-morrow's seed waits to be sown. To-day God gave thee for thine own!

Berries of Yew.

UNDERNEATH the down, with its vast limbs sweeping
Southward, ever southward to the restless sea,
In a rounded hollow, desolately sleeping,

Dreaming solemn dreams, stands the grave yew

tree.

When the heavy-headed corn is glad and glowing, When the golden grass is waving on the slope, Then my yew-tree wakes to dreams of fruitful sowing,

Loads her silly branches and abides in hope.

Red and translucent, orbed in soft completeness,
Hung like fairy lamps, in the sombre shade;
Yet the merry-hearted thrush abhors the sickly
sweetness,

And the glutton sparrow flirts his wing, and flees afraid.

Then, sick at heart, the ripe and ruddy burden
Spills its unregarded treasures underfoot.
No welcome from the world, no grateful guerdon,
Save a sheltered grave beneath the parent root.
Poor patient tree, that dost distil and cherish
By thy dark alchemy no gift of grace;

We too are doomed to bear the fruits that perish,
Yet we have dreams of some diviner place.

Lord of sorry waste and impotent endeavour,
Raise us, embolden us to strive in vain;
Surely far hence, hereafter, and for ever
We shall reap the harvest of our fruitless pain.