The night hardly covers the face of the sky, But the darkness is drawn Like a veil o'er the heaven these nights in July, A veil rent at dawn, When with exquisite tremors the poplar leaves quiver, And a breeze like a kiss wakes the slumbering river, And the light in the east keener grows--clearer grows, Till the edge of the clouds turn from pearl into rose, And o'er the hill's shoulder--the night wholly past-- The sun peeps at last!

Come out! there's a freshness that thrills like a song, That soothes like a sleep; And the scent of wild thyme on the air borne along, Where the downs slope up steep.

There's such dew on the earth and such lights in the heaven, Lost joys are forgotten, old sorrows forgiven, And the old earth looks new--and our hearts seem new-born, And stripped of the cere-clothes which long they have worn-- And hope and brave purpose awaken anew 'Mid the sunshine and dew.

NOVEMBER.

Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by Across the gold sun and blue sky, Which still are there eternally.

Above the sodden garden-bed Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead, Where the tall lily bent its head Over carnations white and red.

The leafless poplars, straight and tall, Stand by the gray-green garden wall, From which such rare fruit used to fall.

In the verandah, where of old Sweet August spent the roses' gold, Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.

And we, by cosy fireside, muse On what the Fates grant, what refuse; And what we waste and what we use.

Summer returns--despite the rain That weeps against the window-pane.

Who'd weep--'mid fame and golden gain-- For youth, that does not come again?

ROCHESTER CASTLE.

Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud; Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things-- Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings.

Thousands of pigeons all the year Fly in and out of the arches here.

What prisoned hands have torn at the stone Where your soft hand lies--oh my heart!--alone?

What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears To see what we see after all these years-- The free, broad river go smoothly by And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?

And now--O Time, how you work your will!

--The pitiless walls are standing still, But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge, And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge, And where once the imprisoned heart beat low, The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!

In the sad, stern arches they build and pair, As happy as dreams and as free as air, And sorrow and longing and life-long pain Man brings not into these walls again; And yet--O my love, with the face of flowers-- What do we bring in these hearts of ours?

RUCKINGE CHURCH.

"And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church was, and how long it was since any music but that of the moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria'--it was Gounod's music, I think--with her voice and her face like an angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely as before."--_Extract from our Diary._

The boat crept slowly through the water-weeds That greenly cover all the waterways, Between high banks where ranks of sedge and reeds Sigh one sad secret all their quiet days, Through gra.s.ses, water-mint and rushes green And flags and strange wet blossoms, only seen Where man so seldom comes, so briefly stays.

From the high bank the sheep looked calmly down, Unscared to see my boat and me go by; The elm trees showed their dress of golden brown To winds that should disrobe them presently; And a marsh sunset flamed across the wold, And the still water caught the lavished gold, The primrose and the purple of the sky.

The boat pressed ever through the weeds and sedge Which, rustling, clung her steadfast prow around; The iris nodded at the water's edge, Bats in the elm trees made a ghostly sound; With whirring wings a wild duck sprang to sight And flew, black-winged, towards the crimson light, Leaving my solitude the more profound.

We moved towards the church, my boat and I-- The church that at the marsh edge stands alone; It caught the reflex of the sunset sky On golden-lichened roof and gray-green stone.

Through snow and shower and sunshine it had stood In the thronged graveyard's infinite solitude, While many a year had come, and flowered, and gone.

From the marsh-meadow to the field of graves But just a step, across a lichened wall.

Thick o'er the happy dead the marsh gra.s.s waves, And cloudy wreaths of marsh mist gather and fall, And the marsh sunsets shed their gold and red Over still hearts that once in torment fed At Life's intolerable festival.

The plaster of the porch has fallen away From the lean stones, that now are all awry, And through the c.h.i.n.ks a shooting ivy spray Creeps in--sad emblem of fidelity-- And wreathes with life the pillars and the beams Hewn long ago--with, ah! what faith and dreams!-- By men whose faith and dreams have long gone by.

The rusty key, the heavy rotten door, The dead, unhappy air, the pillars green With mould and damp, the desecrated floor With bricks and boards where tombstones should have been And were once; all the musty, dreary chill-- They strike a shudder through my being still When memory lights again that lightless scene.

And where the altar stood, and where the Christ Reached out His arms to all the world, there stood Law-tables, as if love had not sufficed To all the world has ever known of good!

Our Lady's chapel was a lightless shrine; There was no human heart and no divine, No odour of prayer, no altar, and no rood.

There was no scent of incense in the air, No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle, The white gla.s.s windows turned to mocking glare The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile.

A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep All that a man might give his life to keep If only for an instant's breathing while!

Cold with my rage against the men who held At such cheap rate the labours of the dead, My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled A sadness that would not be comforted; An awe came on me, and I seemed to face The invisible spirit of the dreary place, To hear the unheard voice of it, which said:--

"Is love, then, dead upon earth?

Ah! who shall tell or be told What my walls were once worth When men worked for love, not for gold?

Each stone was made to hold A heartful of love and faith; Now love and faith are dead, Dead are the prayers that are said, Nothing is living but Death!

"Oh for the old glad days, Incense thick in the air, Pa.s.sion of thanks and of praise, Pa.s.sion of trust and of prayer!

Ah! the old days were fair, Love on the earth was then, Strong were men's souls, and brave: Those men lie in the grave, They will live not again!

"Then all my arches rang With music glorious and sweet, Men's souls burned as they sang, Tears fell down at their feet, Hearts with the Christ-heart beat, Hands in men's hands held fast; Union and brotherhood were!

Ah! the old days were fair, Therefore the old days pa.s.sed.

"Then, when later there came Hatred, anger and strife, The sword blood-red and the flame And the stake and contempt of life, Husband severed from wife, Hearts with the Christ-heart bled: Through the worst of the fight Still the old fire burned bright, Still the old faith was not dead.

"Though they tore my Christ from the cross, And mocked at the Mother of Grace, And broke my windows across, Defiling the holy place-- Children of death and disgrace!

They spat on the altar stone, They tore down and trampled the rood, Stained my pillars with blood, Left me lifeless, alone--

"Yet, when my walls were left Robbed of all beauty and bare, Still G.o.d cancelled the theft, The soul of the thing was there.

In my damp, unwindowed air Fugitives stopped to pray, And their prayers were splendid to hear, Like the sound of a storm that is near-- And love was not dead that day.

"Then the birds of the air built nests In these empty shadows of mine, And the warmth of their brooding b.r.e.a.s.t.s Still warmed the untended shrine.

His creatures are all divine; He is praised by the woodland throng, And my old walls echoed and heard The pa.s.sionate praising word, And love still lived in their song.

"Then came the Protestant crew And made me the thing you have known-- Whitewashed and plastered me new, Covered my marble and stone-- Could they not leave me alone?

Vain was the cry, for they trod Over my tombs, and I saw Books and the Tables of Law Set in the place of my G.o.d.

"And love is dead, so it seems!

Shall I never hear again The music of heaven and of dreams, Songs of ideals of men?

Great dreams and songs we had then, Now I but hear from the wood Cry of a bat or a bird.

Oh for love's pa.s.sionate word Sent from men's hearts to the Good!