The Rainbow and the Rose Part 4

So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady, What does he care though the rest are playing, With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady, Happy children, whom Joy takes maying!

Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him Scolding the others, breaking their rattles, Smas.h.i.+ng their drums, when their play comes near him-- Love who, for me, is a G.o.d of battles!

IV.

"OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKETH."

In answer to those who have said that English Poets give no personal love to their country.

ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations, Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong, Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations?

Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song?

O dear fields of my country, gra.s.s growing green, glowing golden, Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring, Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing, What, if G.o.d sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing?

Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises, What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast?

Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies?

Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest?

Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow, Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere, Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow?

Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear?

Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom, Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam, Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom, Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home.

Lanes that are white with hawthorn, d.y.k.es where the sedges s.h.i.+ver, Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free, Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river, Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?

Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way, Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your gra.s.s-green waves, Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway, But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves?

Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you, Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold, Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you, Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold?

Therefore the song breaks forth from the depths of the hidden fountain Singing your least frail flower, your raiment of seas and skies, Singing your pasture and cornfield, fen and valley and mountain, England, desire of my heart, England, delight of mine eyes!

Take my song too, my country: many a son and debtor Pays you in praise and homage out of your gifts' full store; Life of my life, my England, many will praise you better, None, by the G.o.d that made you, ever can love you more!

SUMMER SONG.

THERE are white moon daisies in the mist of the meadow Where the flowered gra.s.s scatters its seeds like spray, There are purple orchis by the wood-ways' shadow, There are pale dog-roses by the white highway; And the gra.s.s, the gra.s.s is tall, the gra.s.s is up for hay, With daisies white like silver and b.u.t.tercups like gold, And it's oh! for once to play thro' the long, the lovely day, To laugh before the year grows old!

There is silver moonlight on the breast of the river Where the willows tremble to the kiss of night, Where the nine tall aspens in the meadow s.h.i.+ver, s.h.i.+ver in the night wind that turns them white.

And the lamps, the lamps are lit, the lamps are glow-worms light, Between the silver aspens and the west's last gold.

And it's oh! to drink delight in the lovely lonely night, To be young before the heart grows old!

THE LOWER ROOM.

How soft the lamplight falls On pictures, books, And pleasant coloured walls And curtains drawn!

How happily one looks On glowing flame and ember; Ah, why should one remember Dew and dawn!

Here age and wisdom sit Calm and discreet, Life and the fruit of it Are here in truth, Whose gathering once was sweet-- Wisdom and age! Well met!

Yet neither can forget Folly and youth!

SONG.

THE summer down the garden walks Swept in her garments bright; She touched the pale still lily stalks And crowned them with delight; She breathed upon the rose's head And filled its heart with fire, And with a golden carpet spread The path of my desire.

The larkspurs stood like sentinels To greet her as she came, Soft rang the Canterbury bells The music of her name.

She pa.s.sed across the happy land Where all dear dreams flower free; She took my true love by the hand And led her out to me.

MAY SONG.

BIRDS in the green of my garden Blackbirds and throstle and wren, Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's And so to your singing again!

Birds in my blossoming orchard, Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark, Preen your bright wings, little happy live things; The May trees grow white in the park!

Birds in the leafy wet woodlands, Cuckoo and nightingale brown, Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground-- The rain on green leaves dripping down!

Fresh with the rain of the May-time, Rich with the promise of June, Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part, Love, like a bird, sings in tune!

V.

TO IRIS.

IF I might build a palace, fair With every joy of soul and sense, And set my heart as sentry there To guard your happy innocence-- If I might plant a hedge so strong No creeping sorrow could writhe through, And find my whole life not too long To give, to make your hedge for you--

If I could teach the wandering air To bring no sounds that were not sweet, Could teach the earth that only fair Untrodden flower deserved your feet: Would I not tear the secret scroll Where all your griefs lie closely curled, And give your little hand control Of all the joys of all the world?

But ah! I have no skill to raise The palace, teach the hedge to grow; The common airs blow through your days, By common ways your dear feet go.

And you must twine of common flowers The wreath that happy women wear, And bear in desolate darkened hours The common griefs that all men bear.

The pinions of my love I fold Your little shoulders close about: Ah--could my love keep out the cold And shut the creeping sorrows out!

Rough paths will tire your darling feet, Gray skies will weep your tears above, While round you still, in torment, beat The impotent wings of mother-love.

TO A CHILD.

(Rosamund.)

The fairies have been busy while you slept; They have been laughing where the sad rain wept, They have taught Beauty to the ignorant flowers, Set tasks of hope to weary wind-torn bowers, And heard the lessons learned in school-rooms cold By seedling snapdragon and marigold.

At dawn, while still you slept, I grew aware How good the fairies are, how many and fair.

The fairy whose delightful gown is red Across a corner of our garden sped, And, where her flying raiment fluttered past, Its roseate reflection still is cast: Red poppies by the rhododendron's side, Paeonies gorgeous in their summer pride, And red may-bushes by the old red wall Shower down their crimson petals over all.

Then she whose gown is gold, and gold her hair, Swept down the golden steep straight sunbeam-stair, She lit the tulip-lamps, she lit the torch Of hollyhock beside the cottage porch.

She dressed the honeysuckle in fringe of gold, She gave the king-cups fairy wealth to hold, She kissed St. John's wort till it opened wide, She set the yarrow by the river side.

Then came the lady all whose robes are white: She made the pale buds blossom in delight, Set silver stars upon the jasmine's hair, And gave the stream white lily-buds to wear.

She painted lilies white, and pearl-white phlox, White poppies, pa.s.sion-flowers and gray-leaved stocks.

Her pure kind touch redeemed the most forlorn, And even the vile petunia smiled, new-born.