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TO GEORGE H. BOUGHTON, R.A.
(WITH A VOLUME OF VERSES)
SPRING stirs and wakes by holt and hill :
In barren copse and bloomless close
Look how the spears of crocus fill
Yet what to you are months?
For you the season comes or goes;
But on your happy canvas still
Spring stirs and wakes!
ROSE, IN THE HEDGEROW GROWN
ROSE, in the hedgerow grown,
Where the scent of the fresh sweet hay Comes up from the fields new-mown, You know it-you know it-alone, So I gather you here to-day.
For here was it not here, say?—
Ah yes!—with her bright hair blown,
R. L. S.
HESE to his Memory.
As ours recall
May the Age
That bravest heart, that gay and gallant striving, That laurelled pall!
Blithe and rare spirit! We who later linger
Sigh for the touch of the Magician's finger,-
SURGE ET AMBULA
"ARISE, and walk"-the One Voice said;
And lo! the sinews shrunk and dry Loosed, and the cripple leaped on high, Wondering, and bare aloft his bed.
The Age of Miracle is fled.
Yet though the Power to raise the dead Treads earth no more, we still may try To smooth the couch where sick men lie, Whispering to hopeless heart and head— "Arise, and walk!"
THE SIMPLE LIFE
"And 'a babbled of green fields."-SHAKESPEARE-CUM
HEN the starlings dot the lawn,
Cheerily, with blameless cup,
Comes the long, still morning when
Next (and not a stroke too soon!)