_ON A FORSAKEN LARK'S NEST._

Lo, where left 'mid the sheaves, cut down by the iron-fanged reaper, Eating its way as it clangs fast through the wavering wheat, Lies the nest of a lark, whose little brown eggs could not keep her As she, affrighted and scared, fled from the harvester's feet.

Ah, what a heartful of song that now will never awaken, Closely packed in the sh.e.l.l, awaited love's fostering, That should have quickened to life what, now a-cold and forsaken, Never, enamoured of light, will meet the dawn on the wing.

Ah, what paeans of joy, what raptures no mortal can measure, Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb, Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure, Would have dropped from the clouds to nest in its gold-curtained home.

Poor, pathetic brown eggs! Oh, pulses that never will quicken!

Music mute in the sh.e.l.l that hath been turned to a tomb!

Many a sweet human singer, chilled and adversity-stricken, Withers benumbed in a world his joy might have helped to illume.

_REAPERS._

Sun-tanned men and women, toiling there together; Seven I count in all, in yon field of wheat, Where the rich ripe ears in the harvest weather Glow an orange gold through the sweltering heat.

Busy life is still, sunk in brooding leisure: Birds have hushed their singing in the hushed tree-tops; Not a single cloud mars the flawless azure; Not a shadow moves o'er the moveless crops;

In the gla.s.sy shallows, that no breath is creasing, Chestnut-coloured cows in the rushes dank Stand like cows of bronze, save when they flick the teasing Flies with switch of tail from each quivering flank.

Nature takes a rest--even her bees are sleeping, And the silent wood seems a church that's shut; But these human creatures cease not from their reaping While the corn stands high, waiting to be cut.

_APPLE-GATHERING._

Ess.e.x flats are pink with clover, Kent is crowned with flaunting hops, Whitely s.h.i.+ne the cliffs of Dover, Yellow wave the Midland crops;

Suss.e.x Downs the flocks grow sleek on, But, for me, I love to stand Where the Herefords.h.i.+re beacon Watches o'er his orchard land.

Where now sun, now shadow dapples-- As it wavers in the breeze-- Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples On the heavy-laden trees:

Red and yellow, streaked and h.o.a.ry, Russet-coated, pale or brown-- Some are dipped in sunset glory, And some painted by the dawn.

What profusion, what abundance!

Not a twig but has its fruits; High in air some in the sun dance, Some lie scattered near the roots.

These the hasty winds have taken Are a green, untimely crop; Those by burly rustics shaken Fall with loud resounding plop.

In this mellow autumn weather, Ruddy 'mid the long green gra.s.s, Heaped-up baskets stand together, Filled by many a blowsy la.s.s.

Red and yellow, streaked and h.o.a.ry, Pile them on the granary floors, Till the yule-log's flame in glory Loudly up the chimney roars;

Till gay troops of children, lightly Tripping in with shouts of glee, See ripe apples dangling brightly On the red-lit Christmas-tree.

_THE SONGS OF SUMMER._

The songs of summer are over and past!

The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves; Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves The nests are rudely swung in the blast: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.

The songs of summer are over and past!

Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs-- The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs, The greeting of lovers too sweet to last: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.

_AUTUMN TINTS._

Coral-coloured yew-berries Strew the garden ways, Hollyhocks and sunflowers Make a dazzling blaze In these latter days.

Marigolds by cottage doors Flaunt their golden pride, Crimson-punctured bramble leaves Dapple far and wide The green mountain-side.

Far away, on hilly slopes Where fleet rivulets run, Miles on miles of tangled fern, Burnished by the sun, Glow a copper dun.

For the year that's on the wane, Gathering all its fire, Flares up through the kindling world As, ere they expire, Flames leap high and higher.

_GREEN LEAVES AND SERE._

Three tall poplars beside the pool s.h.i.+ver and moan in the gusty blast, The carded clouds are blown like wool, And the yellowing leaves fly thick and fast.

The leaves, now driven before the blast, Now flung by fits on the curdling pool, Are tossed heaven-high and dropped at last As if at the whim of a jabbering fool.

O leaves, once rustling green and cool!

Two met here where one moans aghast With wild heart heaving towards the past: Three tall poplars beside the pool.

_THE HUNTER'S MOON._

The Hunter's Moon rides high, High o'er the close-cropped plain; Across the desert sky The herded clouds amain Scamper tumultuously, Chased by the hounding wind That yelps behind.

The clamorous hunt is done, Warm-housed the kennelled pack; One huntsman rides alone With dangling bridle slack; He wakes a hollow tone, Far echoing to his horn In clefts forlorn.

The Hunter's Moon rides low, Her course is nearly sped.

Where is the panting roe?

Where hath the wild deer fled?

Hunter and hunted now Lie in oblivion deep: Dead or asleep.

_THE Pa.s.sING YEAR._

No breath of wind stirs in the painted leaves, The meadows are as stirless as the sky, Like a Saint's halo golden vapours lie Above the restful valley's garnered sheaves.

The journeying Sun, like one who fondly grieves, Above the hills seems loitering with a sigh, As loth to bid the fruitful earth good-bye, On these hushed hours of luminous autumn eves.

There is a pathos in his softening glow, Which like a benediction seems to hover O'er the tranced earth, ere he must sink below And leave her widowed of her radiant Lover, A frost-bound sleeper in a shroud of snow While winter winds howl a wild dirge above her.

_THE ROBIN REDBREAST._

The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower Their leaves on the sere gra.s.s, where some late flower In golden chalice h.o.a.rds the sunlight still.

Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower, Have in adversity's inclement hour Abandoned us to bleak November's chill.

But hearken! Yonder russet bird among The crimson cl.u.s.ters of the homely thorn Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song-- A blending of sweet hope and resignation: Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn, One friend becomes its last, best consolation.

_THE RED SUNSETS, 1883._

The boding sky was charactered with cloud, The scripture of the storm--but high in air, Where the unfathomed zenith still was bare, A pure expanse of rose-flushed violet glowed And, kindling into crimson light, o'erflowed The hurrying wrack with such a blood-red glare, That heaven, igniting, wildly seemed to flare On the dazed eyes of many an awe-struck crowd.

And in far lands folk presaged with blanched lips Disastrous wars, earthquakes, and foundering s.h.i.+ps Such whelming floods as never d.y.k.es could stem, Or some proud empire's ruin and eclipse: Lo, such a sky, they cried, as burned o'er them Once lit the sacking of Jerusalem!