Midmost the beating of the steely sea,

Where tossed about all hearts of men must be; Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay, Not the poor singer of an empty day.

PROLOGUE

(From the same)

Forget six counties overhung with smoke,
Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke,
Forget the spreading of the hideous town;
Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,
And dream of London, small, and white, and clean,
The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green;
Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves
Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves,
Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill,
And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill,
And treasured scanty spice from some far sea,
Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery,

And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne;
While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen
Moves over bills of lading,-'mid such times
Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.

JUNE

(From the same)

O June, O June, that we desirèd so,
Wilt thou not make us happy on this day?
Across the river thy soft breezes blow
Sweet with the scent of beanfields far away,
Above our heads rustle the aspens gray,
Calm is the sky with harmless clouds beset,
No thought of storm the morning vexes yet.

See, we have left our hopes and fear behind
To give our very hearts up unto thee;

What better place than this then could we find
By this sweet stream that knows not of the sea,
That guesses not the city's misery,

This little stream whose hamlets scarce have names,
This far-off, lonely mother of the Thames?

Here then, O June, thy kindness will we take;
And if indeed but pensive men we seem,

What should we do? thou wouldst not have us wake
From out the arms of this rare happy dream,
And wish to leave the murmur of the stream,
The rustling boughs, the twitter of the birds,
And all thy thousand peaceful happy words.

L'ENVOI

(From the same)

"Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life have we loved, through green leaf and through

sere,

Though still the less we knew of its intent:

The Earth and Heaven through countless year on year,
Slow changing, were to us but curtains fair
Hung round about a little room, where play
Weeping and laughter of man's empty day.

"O Master, if thine heart could love us yet, Spite of things left undone, and wrongly done, Some place in loving hearts then should we get, For thou, sweet-souled, didst never stand alone, But knew'st the joy and woe of many an oneBy lovers dead, who live through thee, we pray, lp thus us singers of an empty day!"

Fearest thou, Book, what answer thou mayst gain, Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof thou die? Nay, it shall not be.-Thou mayst toil in vain, And never draw the House of Fame anigh; Yet he and his shall know whereof we cry, Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay The ghosts that crowd about life's empty day.

Then let the others go! and if indeed

In some old garden thou and I have wrought,
And made fresh flowers spring up from hoarded seed,
And fragrance of old days and deeds have brought
Back to folk weary; all was not for nought.
-No little part it was for me to play-
The idle singer of an empty day.

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT

(From the same)

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood,
In haste and hurry to be there,
Nought seem its leaves and blossoms good,
For all that they be fashioned fair.

But looking up, at last we see
The glimmer of the open light,

From o'er the place where we would be:
Then grow the very brambles bright.

So now, amidst our day of strife,
With many a matter glad we play,
When once we see the light of life
Gleam through the tangle of to-day.

Eugene Lee-bamilton

1845-1907

SONNETS*

(From Mimma Bella, 1909)

X.

'Tis Christmas, and we gaze with downbent head
On something that the post has brought too late
To reach thee, Mimma, through the narrow gate,
From one who did not know that thou art dead:

A picture-book, to play with on thy bed;

And we, who should have heard thee laugh and prate So busily, sit here at war with Fate,

And turn the pages silently instead.

O that I knew thee playing 'neath God's eyes,
With the small souls of all the dewy flowers
That strewed thy grave, and died at Autumn's breath;

Or, with the phantom of the doll that lies
Beside thee for Eternity's long hours,

In the dim nursery that men call Death.

XXIII.

Do you recall the scents, the insect whirr,
Where we had laid her in the chestnut shade?

How discs of sunlight through the bright leaves played
Upon the grass, as we bent over her?

*Reprinted from Mimma Bella, by permission of Duffield & Co.

How roving breezes made the bracken stir
Beside her, while the bumble-bee, arrayed

In brown and gold, hummed round her, and the glade Was strewn with last year's chestnuts' prickly fur?

There in the forest's ripe and fragrant heat
She lay and laughed, and kicked her wee bare feet,
And stretched wee hands to grasp some woodland bell;

And played her little games; and when we said
Cuckoo," would lift her frock, and hide her head,
Which now, God knows, is hidden but too well.

William Watson

1858

THE FIRST SKYLARK OF SPRING *

Two worlds hast thou to dwell in, Sweet,-
The virginal untroubled sky,

And this vext region at my feet.-
Alas, but one have I!

To all my songs there clings the shade,
The dulling shade, of mundane care.
They amid mortal mists are made,—
Thine, in immortal air.

My heart is dashed with griefs and fears;
My song comes fluttering, and is gone.

O high above the home of tears,

Eternal Joy, sing on!

* From The Poems of William Watson. Copyright, 1905, by the John Lane Company.