A blue eye in the wood, And on its brink a moment's space Ah, better for those gentlemen, Not one of that brave company Ah, what avails the silver horn, O'er ridge and hollow sped the horse Besprent with blood and foam, Nor slackened pace until at eve He brought his master home. Helen Grap Cone THE RIDE TO THE LADY "Now since mine even is come at last, For the ride to the lady should be long. Day was dying; the poplars fled, Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein, — But the viewless rider rode to win. Out of the wood to the highway's light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, And the weight of the dead oppressed his side. Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; As a garment worn of a wizard grim. She heard no sound before her gate, And made the streams as the streams of Though very quiet was her bower. hell. All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face. "Face, mine own, mine alone, Far behind had the fight's din died; Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; All was as her hand had left it late: Her fashioning did wait. On the couch lay something fair, On the wings of shrift and prayer, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago. The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, No whit the nearer to his goal. Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them, But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them. "Vanity, oh, vanity! Young maids, beware of vanity!" The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes, Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes; And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass, They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass. All because the buff-coat Bee Young maids, beware of vanity!" FAIR ENGLAND WHITE England shouldering from the sea, Green England in thy rainy veil, Old island-nest of Liberty And loveliest Song, all hail ! God guard thee long from scath and grief! Not any wish of ours would mar What! phantoms are we, spectre-thin, Nay! sacred Life, a scarlet thread, Through lost unnumbered lives has run; No strength can tear us from the dead; Nay through the years God's purpose glides, And links in sequence deed with deed; O brother, breathing English air! If hearts be high, if hands be pure, A bond unseen! and yet God speed That inward brotherhood. For not the rose-and-emerald bow Can bid the battling storm to cease, But leaps at last, that all may know The sign, not source, of peace. Oh, what shall shameful peace avail, If east or west, if there or here, Men sprung of ancient England fail To hold their birthright dear? If west or east, if here or there, |