III

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
While on the wing the blue-birds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,

Where water flows, where green grass grows,

Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

And, best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm.

How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing In days so sweet with music's balm!

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,

I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:

The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,

And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;

New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,

I fain would hear, before I go, the woodnotes of the veery.

the lily of Yorrow:

He has discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.

TENNYSON

IN LUCEM TRANSITUS, OCTOBER, 1892

FROM the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendors of the moon,

To the singing tides of heaven, and the light more clear than noon, Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in tune.

Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art;

of sunsets golden,

Secrets that cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.

Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a life-long endeavor;

Surely to pluck it is gladness,

but they who have found it can never Tell of the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision forever.

'T was but a moment ago that a comrade was wandering near me:

Turning aside from the pathway, he murmured a greeting to cheer me, Then he was lost in the shade, and I called, but he did not hear me.

Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with passionate sorrow?

human heart,

Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou depart?

And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy,
Said, "We were at Ramillies;
We left our bones at Fontenoy

And up in the Pyrenees;
Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain,
Cremona, Lille, and Ghent,

We're all over Austria, France, and
Spain,

Wherever they pitched a tent. We've died for England from Waterloo To Egypt and Dargai;

And still there's enough for a corps or crew,

Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here is to good honest fighting blood!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

"Oh, the fighting races don't die out,

If they seldom die in bed,

For love is first in their hearts, no doubt," Said Burke; then Kelly said:

"When Michael, the Irish Archangel,

stands,

The angel with the sword,

And the battle - dead from a hundred lands

Are ranged in one big horde,

Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits, Will stretch three deep that day,

From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here's thank God for the race and the sod!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 1898