RUS IN URBE

POETS are singing the whole world over
Of May in melody, joys for June;
Dusting their feet in the careless clover,

And filling their hearts with the blackbird's tune. The "brown bright nightingale" strikes with pity The sensitive heart of a count or clown;

But where is the song for our leafy city,
And where the rhymes for our lovely town?

"O for the Thames, and its rippling reaches,
Where almond rushes, and breezes sport!
Take me a walk under Burnham Beeches;

Give me a dinner at Hampton Court!"
Poets, be still, though your hearts I harden;
We've flowers by day and have scents at dark,
The limes are in leaf in the cockney garden,
And lilacs blossom in Regent's Park.

"Come for a blow," says a reckless fellow,
Burned red and brown by passionate sun;
"Come to the downs, where the gorse is yellow;
The season of kisses has just begun!
Come to the fields where bluebells shiver,
Hear cuckoo's carol, or plaint of dove;

Come for a row on the silent river;

Come to the meadows and learn to love!

Yes, I will come when this wealth is over
Of softened color and perfect tone-
The lilac's better than fields of clover;

I'll come when blossoming May has flown.
When dust and dirt of a trampled city

Have dragged the yellow laburnum down,
I'll take my holiday-more's the pity-
And turn my back upon London town.

Margaret! am I so wrong to love it,

This misty town that your face shines through?

A crown of blossom is waved above it;

But heart and life of the whirl—'tis you !

A White Rose

Margaret! pearl! I have sought and found you;
And, though the paths of the wind are free,
I'll follow the ways of the world around you,
And build my nest on the nearest tree!

635

Clement Scott [1841-1904]

"I NEVER COULD LOVE TILL NOW"

WHEN I gazed on a beautiful face,

Or a form which my fancy approved,

I was pleased with its sweetness and grace,
And falsely believed that I loved.

But my heart, though I strove to deceive,
The imposture it would not allow;

I could look, I could like, I could leave,
But I never could love-till now.

Yet though I from others could rove,
Now harbor no doubt of my truth,
Those flames were not lighted by love,
They were kindled by folly and youth.
But no longer of reason bereft,

On your hand, that pure altar, I vow,

Though I've looked, and I've liked, and have left— That I never have loved-till now.

Matthew Gregory Lewis [1775-1818]

A WHITE ROSE

THE red rose whispers of passion,

And the white rose breathes of love;

Oh, the red rose is a falcon,

And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;

For the love that is purest and sweetest

Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

John Boyle O'Reilly [1844-1890]

"SOME DAY OF DAYS"

SOME day, some day of days, threading the street
With idle, heedless pace,
Unlooking for such grace

I shall behold your face!

Some day, some day of days, thus may we meet.

Perchance the sun may shine from skies of May,
Or winter's icy chill

Touch whitely vale and hill.

What matter? I shall thrill

Through every vein with summer on that day.

Once more life's perfect youth will all come back, And for a moment there

I shall stand fresh and fair,

And drop the garment care;

Once more my perfect youth will nothing lack.

I shut my eyes now, thinking how 'twill be-
How face to face each soul

Will slip its long control,

Forget the dismal dole

Of dreary Fate's dark, separating sea;

And glance to glance, and hand to hand in greeting,

The past with all its fears,

Its silences and tears,

Its lonely, yearning years,

Shall vanish in the moment of that meeting.

Nora Perry [1832-1896]

"MY DEARLING"

My Dearling!-thus, in days long fled,
In spite of creed and court and queen,
King Henry wrote to Anne Boleyn,-
The dearest pet name ever said,

And dearly purchased, too, I wean!

Where Love is

Poor child! she played a losing game:
She won a heart, so Henry said,—
But ah, the price she gave instead!
Men's hearts, at best, are but a name:
She paid for Henry's with her head!

You count men's hearts as something worth?
Not I: were I a maid unwed,

I'd rather have my own fair head
Than all the lovers on the carth,

Than all the hearts that ever bled!

"My Dearling!" with a love most true,
Having no fear of creed or queen,

I breathe that name my prayers between;
But it shall never bring to you

The hapless fate of Anne Boleyn!

637

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

WHERE LOVE IS

By the rosy cliffs of Devon, on a green hill's crest,

I would build me a house as a swallow builds her nest;

I would curtain it with roses, and the wind should breathe to

me

The sweetness of the roses and the saltness of the sea.

Where the Tuscan olives whiten in the hot blue day,

I would hide me from the heat in a little hut of gray,
While the singing of the husbandmen should scale my lattice

green

From the golden rows of barley that the poppies blaze be

tween.

Narrow is the street, Dear, and dingy are the walls
Wherein I wait your coming as the twilight falls.

All day with dreams I gild the grime till at your step I start-
Ah Love, my country in your arms-my home upon your

heart!

Amelia Josephine Burr [18

THAT DAY YOU CAME

SUCH special sweetness was about
That day God sent you here,
I knew the lavender was out,
And it was mid of year.

Their common way the great winds blew,
The ships sailed out to sea;

Yet ere that day was spent I knew
Mine own had come to me.

As after song some snatch of tune
Lurks still in grass or bough,
So, somewhat of the end o' June
Lurks in each weather now.

The young year sets the buds astir,
The old year strips the trees;

But ever in my lavender

I hear the brawling bees.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856

AMANTIUM IRE

WHEN this, our rose, is faded,
And these, our days, are done,
In lands profoundly shaded

From tempest and from sun:
Ah, once more come together,
Shall we forgive the past,
And safe from worldly weather
Possess our souls at last?

Or in our place of shadows

Shall still we stretch an hand
To green, remembered meadows,
Of that old pleasant land?