of yellow blossom, A dazzling blaze of splendour in the noon! And brightening open heaven, ye shining clouds, With lustrous light that casts the azure dim! Your radiance all united to the sun’s Were darkness to that glory born in me.

For Love’s own voice has owned her love is mine; And Love’s own palm has pressed my palm to hers; Love’s own deep eyes have looked the love she spoke: And Love’s young heart to mine was fondly beating As from her lips I sucked the sweet of life.

p. 45IV. NIGHT.

p. 45

What trite old folly unharmonious sages In dull books write or prattle day by day, Of sin original and growing crime! And commentating the advance of time, Say wrong has fostered wrong for countless ages, The strong ones marking down the weak for prey.

They bruit of wars—that thunder heard in dreams; Huge insurrections, and dynastic changes Resolved in blood. I marvel they of thought By apprehensions are so often wrought To state as fact what unto all men seems, Who watch cloud-struggles blown through stormy ranges!

p. 46Why fill they not with love the printed page, Illuminating, as yon moon the night, Serenely shining on a world of beauty, Where love moves ever hand in hand with duty; And life, a long aspiring pilgrimage, Makes labour but a pastime of delight!

p. 46

It was delightfulness to him I found Whistling this afternoon behind his team, That stepped an easy comfortable pace; While off the mould-iron curved in rolling grace Dark earth, wave lapping wave, without a sound; And all passed by me blissful, like a dream.

And those I noticed hoeing on the hill Talking familiarly of homely things, A daughter’s marriage-day, a son’s first child; How the good Squire at length was reconciled, Had overlooked the pheasant shot by Will:— Chirruping on as any cricket sings.

p. 47And that complete Arcadian pastoral, The piping boy who watched his feeding sheep; And, as a little bird o’erflows with joy, Piped on for hours my happy shepherd boy! While, coiled below, his faithful animal Basked in the sunshine, blinking, half asleep.

p. 47

This silent night-wind bloweth heavenly pure; Like dimpled warmth of an infantine face. Lo, glimmering starlike in yon balmy vale The village lights; each tells a little 

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