With fragrance from the locust-trees,

And drowsy moan of doves, and blur
Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees,

With afterhushes of the stir

Of intermingling sounds, and then
The goodwife and the smile of her
Filling the silences again -

The cricket's call,

And the wee cot,

Dear Lord of all,

'Deny me not!

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The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,
It hath the kingliest smile on earth —
The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,
Hath never need of coronet.

And so I reach,

Dear Lord, to Thee,

And do beseech

Thou givest me

The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,

Love, and the glad sweet face of her!

CHARLES LEONARD MOORE

1854

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MR. MOORE was born at Philadelphia. He is a lawyer by profession, but has filled a diplomatic post at San Antonio, Brazil, and he has published several volumes of verse.

TO ENGLAND

Now England lessens on my sight;

The bastioned front of Wales,

Discolored and indefinite,

There like a cloud wreath sails:

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A league, and all those thronging hills
Must sink beneath the sea;

But while one touch of Memory thrills
They yet shall stay with me.

I claim no birthright in yon sod,

Though thence my blood and name; My sires another region trod,

Fought for another fame;

Yet a son's tear this moment wrongs
My eager watching eyes,

Land of the lordliest deeds and songs
Since Greece was great and wise!

Thou hedgerow thing that queenest the Earth,
What magic hast? — what art?

A thousand years of work and worth

Are clustered at thy heart:

The ghosts of those that made thee free

To throng thy hearth are wont ;

And as thy richest reliquary

Thou wearest thy Abbey's front!

Aye, ere my distance is complete

I see thy heroes come

And crowd yon shadowy mountain seat,
Still guardians of their home;

Thy Drake, thy Nelson, and thy Bruce

Glow out o'er dusky tides;

The rival Roses blend in truce,

And King with Roundhead rides.

And with these phantoms born to last,
A storm of music breaks;

And bards, pavilioned in the past,

Each from his tomb awakes!

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5

The ring and glitter of thy swords,
Thy lovers' bloom and breath,
By them transmuted into words,
Redeem the world from death.

My path is West! My heart before
Bounds o'er the dancing wave;
Yet something's left I must deplore —
A magic wild and grave:

Though Honor live and Romance dwell

By mine own streams and woods, Yet not in spire and keep so well Are built such lofty moods.

England, perchance our love were more

If we were matched and met

In battle squadron on the shore,

Or here on ocean set:

How were all other banners furled

If that great duel rose !

For we alone in all the world

Are worthy to be foes.

If we should fail or you should fly,
"Twere but a twinned disgrace,
For both are bound to bear on high

But with my service to her o'er,
Thou, England, ownest the rest,
For I must worship and adore
Whate'er is brave and best.

CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS
1858-1891

An unusually promising career was cut short by the early death of Lüders. He was a frequent contributor to the magazines, in both prose and verse, and left behind one volume of poetry. He was born in Philadelphia, where he died.

THE FOUR WINDS1

WIND of the North,

Wind of the Norland snows,

Wind of the winnowed skies, and sharp, clear stars,
Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,

And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,

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And blur the casement squares with glittering ice,
But go not near my love.

Wind of the West,

Wind of the few, far clouds,

Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands,

Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,
And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East,

Wind of the sunrise seas,

Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains, —
Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,

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1 From The Dead Nymph and Other Poems. Copyright, 1891, by Charles

Scribner's Sons.