When Winter came and blasts did sigh,

And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,

He died so quietly.

J. CLARE.

201. MY EARLY HOME
HERE sparrows build upon the trees,

And stockdove hides her nest;
The leaves are winnowed by the breeze

Into a calmer rest :
The black-cap's song was very sweet,

That used the rose to kiss ;
It made the Paradise complete :

My early home was this.
The red-breast from the sweetbrier bush

Dropt down to pick the worm ;
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush,

O'er the house where I was born ;
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,

Fell o’er this 'bower of bliss ',
And on the bench sat boys and girls :

My early home was this.
The old house stooped just like a cave,

Thatched o'er with mosses green ;
Winter around the walls would rave,

But all was calm within ;
The trees are here all green agen,

Here bees the flowers still kiss,
But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then :
My early home was this.

J. CLARE.

202. FROM THE FATE OF AMY' THE flowers the sultry summer Lost was that sweet simplicity ; kills,

Her eye's bright lustre fled ; Spring's milder suns restore; And o'er her cheeks, where roses But innocence, that fickle charm, bloomed,

Blooms once, and blooms no A sickly paleness spread.

more.

The swains who loved no more

admire, Their hearts no beauty warms ; And maidens triumph in her fall

That envied once her charms.

So fades the flower before its

time,
Where canker-worms assail ;
So droops the bud upon its stem
Beneath the sickly gale.

J. CLARE.

203. EVENING PRIMROSE WHEN once the sun sinks in the west, And dew-drops pearl the Evening's breast ; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The Evening Primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew ; And hermit-like, shunning the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the Night; Who, blindfold to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty he possesses, Thus it blooms on while Night is by ; When Day looks out with open eye, 'Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints, and withers, and is gone. J. CLARE.

204. QUA CURSUM VENTUS As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay

With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scarce long leagues apart descried ; When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,

And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas

By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so—but why the tale reveal

Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,

Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? At dead of night their sails were filled,

And onward each rejoicing steeredAh, neither blame, for neither willed,

Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,

Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides :

To that, and your own selves, be true. But O blithe breeze ; and 0 great seas,

Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,

Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,

One purpose hold where'er they fare,-
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas !
At last, at last, unite them there !

A. H. SLOUGH.

E

205. THE BATHING-PLACE But in the interval here the boiling, pent-up water Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a basin, Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with whiteness and fury Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure, a mirror ; Beautiful there for the colour derived from the green rocks under ; Beautiful, most of all, where beads of foam uprising Mingle their clouds of white with the delicate hue of the stillness, Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and pendent birch boughs, Here it lies, unthought of above at the bridge and pathway, Still more enclosed from below by wood and rocky projection. You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection of water, Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself and the goddess of bathing.

Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride the fall and clear it ; Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in beaded sparklings, Here into pure green depth drop down from lofty ledges.

A. H. Clough (The Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich).

206. COME BACK, COME BACK COME back, come back, across the flying foam, We hear faint far-off voices call us home.

Come back, come back; and whither back or why?
To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes to try;
Walk the old fields ; pace the familiar street;
Dream with the idlers, with the bards compete.

Come back, come back.
Come back, come back; and whither and for what ?
To finger idly some old Gordian knot,
Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to cleave,
And with much toil attain to half-believe.

Come back, come back.

Come back, come back !
Back flies the foam ; the hoisted flag streams back ;
The long smoke wavers on the homeward track,
Back fly with winds things which the winds obey,
The strong ship follows its appointed way.

A. H. CLOUGH.

207. GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND
GREEN fields of England ! wheresoe'er
Across this watery waste we fare,
Your image at our hearts we bear,
Green fields of England, everywhere.

Sweet eyes in England, I must flee
Past where the waves' last confines be,
Ere your loved smile I cease to see,
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me.
Dear home in England, safe and fast
If but in thee my lot lie cast,
The past shall seem a nothing past
To thee, dear home, if won at last;
Dear home in England, won at last.

A. H. CLOUGH.

208. THE STREAM OF LIFE O STREAM descending to the sea, Strong purposes our mind possess, Thy mossy banks between,

Our hearts affections fill, The flowerets blow, the grasses We toil and earn, we seek and grow,

learn, The leafy trees are green.

And thou descendest still.

O end to which our currents tend, In garden plots the children play,

Inevitable sea, The fields the labourers till,

To which we flow, what do we And houses stand on either hand,

know, And thou descendest still.

What shall we guess of thee ? O life descending into death, A roar we hear upon thy shore, Our waking eyes behold,

As we our course fulfil ; Parent and friend thy lapse attend, Scarce we divine a sun will shine Companions young and old. And be above us still.

A. H. CLOUGH.
209. IN A LONDON SQUARE
Put forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane,

East wind and frost are safely gone ;
With zephyr mild and balmy rain

The summer comes serenely on;
Earth, air, and sun and skies combine

To promise all that's kind and fair ;-
But thou, O human heart of mine,

Be still, contain thyself, and bear.
December days were brief and chill,

The winds of March were wild and drear,
And, nearing and receding still,

Spring never would, we thought, be here.
The leaves that burst, the suns that shine,

Had, not the less, their certain date ;-
And thou, O human heart of mine,
Be still, refrain thyself, and wait.

A. H. Clough.

210. SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH

Say not the struggle naught availeth,

The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ;

It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,

And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,

Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,

Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright!

A. H. CLOUGH.

211. HOME, ROSE, AND HOME, PROVENCE AND LA PALIE

ITE DOMUM SATURAE, VENIT HESPERUS
The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie),
The rainy clouds are filing fast below,
And wet will be the path, and wet shall we.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone
Who stepped beside and cheered us on and on ?
My sweetheart wanders far away from me,
In foreign land or on a foreign sea.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie),
And through the vale the rains go sweeping by ;
Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be ?
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.
Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they
O’er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie).
And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind
The pleasant huts and herds he left behind ?
And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see
The feeding kine and doth he think of me,
My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be?
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.