TO THE TRUE ROMANCE. (From Many Inventions.) Thy face is far from this our war, I shall not find Thee quick and kind, Through wantonness if men profess And perish with their arts; But we that love, but we that prove While we adore discover more Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirred Beyond his belly-need, What is is Thine of fair design In thought and craft and deed; Each stroke aright of toil and fight, And hope too high, wherefore we die, Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee And knowledge sure that he endure. A child until he die For to make plain that man's disdain Is but new Beauty's birth For to possess, in loneliness, As Thou didst teach all lovers speech, And Life all mystery, So shalt Thou rule by every school Till love and longing die, Who wast or yet the lights were set, A whisper in the Void, Who shalt be sung through planets young When this is clean destroyed. Beyond the bounds our staring rounds, Across the pressing dark, The children wise of outer skies Look hitherward and mark A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, Rekindling thus and thus, Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne Strange tales to them of us. Time hath no tide but must abide Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme Oh 'twas certes at Thy decrees We fashioned Heaven and Hell! Pure Wisdom hath no certain path Thou art the Voice to kingly boys A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law A shadow kind to dumb and blind The shambles where we die; A sum to trick th' arithmetic Too base of leaguing odds, The spur of trust, the curb of lust, Oh Charity, all patiently Abiding wrack and scaith! Oh Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats Devil and brute Thou dost transmute Who art in sooth that lovely Truth Thy face is far from this our war, I may not find Thee quick and kind, Yet may I look with heart unshook Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis, My Lady is not there! THE FLOWERS. "To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic, almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress, are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote; the dog's-tooth violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose, nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April as the English thrush."-The Athenæum. Buy my English posies— Wet with Channel spray; Midland furze afire— Buy my English posies, And I'll sell your hearts' desire ! Buy my English posies!— You that scorn the may Won't you greet a friend from home Half the world away? |