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1849[Son of Philip Henry Gosse, F.R.S. Born in London, Sept. 21, 1849; educated in Devon. shire; appointed assistant librarian at the British Museum in 1867, and received in 1875 the post of translator to the Board of Trade. He spent some time in Norway, Denmark, Sweden, and Holland, studying the literature of those countries. His poetical writings consist of Madrigals, Songs, and Sonnets (in conjunction with a friend), 1870; On Viol and Flute, 1873; King Erik, a Tragedy, 1876; The Unknown Lover, a Drama, 1878; and New Poems, 1879. He is also the author of about thirty essays contributed to Ward's English Foets, 1880–81. He is now engaged upon a complete edition of the works of Gray. His Life of Gray, in the English Men of Letters Series, appeared in 1882.]
LYING IN THE GRASS. BETWEEN two golden tufts of summer Brown English faces by the sun burnt grass,
red, I see the world through hot air as Rich glowing color on bare throat and through glass,
head, And by my face sweet lights and colors My heart would leap to watch them, pass.
were I dead!
Before me, dark against the fading
sky, ( watch three mowers mowing, as I lie: With brawny arms they sweep in har
And in my strong young living as I lie,
The music of the scythes that glide | They know so little why the world is and leap,
sad, The young men whistling as their great They dig themselves warm graves and arms sweep,
yet are glad; And all the perfume and sweet sense of Their muffled screams aná laughter sleep,
make me mad!
The weary butterflies that droop their I long to go and play among them wings,
there; The dreamy nightingale that hardly Unseen, like wind, to take them by the sings,
hair, And all the lassitude of happy things, And gently make their rosy cheeks
more fair. Is mingling with the warm and pulsing blood
The happy children! full of frank surThat gushes through my veins a lan
prise, guid flood,
And sudden whims and innocent ecstaAnd feeds my spirit as the sap a bud.
What godhead sparkles from their liquid Behind the mowers, on the amber air,
eyes! A dark-green beech wood rises, still and fair,
No wonder round those urns of mingled A white path winding up it like a stair.
That Tuscan potters fashioned in old And see that girl, with pitcher on her days, head,
And colored like the torrid earth ablaze, And clean white apron on her gown of red,
We find the little gods and loves porHer even-song of love is but half-said :
Through ancient forests wandering unShe waits the youngest mower.
And fluting hymns of pleasure unafraid. Her cheeks are redder than a wild
blush-rose : They climb up where the deepest shadows They knew, as I do now, what keen close.
A strong man feels to watch the tender But though they pass, and vanish, I am
Of little children playing in his sight; there. I watch his rough hands meet beneath her hair,
What pure sweet pleasure, and what Their broken speech sounds sweet to me
above, Ah! now the rosy children come to
In watching how their limbs and feat. play, And romp and struggle with the newmown hay;
I do not hunger for a well-stored mind, Their clear high voices sound from far I only wish to live my life and find away.
My heart in unison with all mankind
My life is like the single dewy star Out of the depths of their soft rich That trembles on the horizon's prim
Languidly Auted the thrushes, and A microcosm where all things living are.
Musical thought in the mild air floats, And if, among the noiseless grasses, Spring is coming and winter is dead! Death
Come, O Swallows, and stir the air, Should come behind and take away my For the buds are all bursting unaware, breath,
And the drooping eaves and the elm I should not rise as one who sorroweth;
To hear the sound of your low sweet For I should pass, but all the world
song. would be Full of desire and young delight and
Over the roofs of the white Algiers, glee,
Flashingly shadowing the bright baAnd why should men be sad through
zaar, loss of me?
Flitted the swallows, and not one hears
The call of the thrushes from far, The light is flying; in the silver-blue
from far; The young moon shines from her bright Sighed the thrushes; then, all at once, window through:
Broke out singing the old sweet tones, The mowers are all gone, and I go too. Singing the bridal of sap and shoot,
The tree's slow life between root and
fruit. THE RETURN OF THE SWAL
But just when the dingles of April LOWS.
flowers “ Out in the meadows the young grass
Shine with the earliest daffodils, springs,
When, before sunrise, the cold clear
hours Shivering with sap,” said the larks, “ and we
Gleam with a promise that noon Shoot into air with our strong young
Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried, Spirally up over level and lea;
Perched on a spray by a rivulet-side, Come, O Swallows, and Aly with us
Swallows, O Swallows, come back Now that horizons are luminous !
again Evening and morning the world of To swoop and herald the April rain.
light, Spreading and kindling, is infinite !” And something awoke in the slumber.
ing heart Far away, by the sea in the south,
Of the alien birds in their African air, The hills of olive and slopes of fern And they paused, and alighted, and Whiten and glow in the sun's long twittered apart, drouth,
And met in the broad white dreamy Under the heavens that beam and
And the sad slave woman, who lifted And all the swallows were gathered
From the fountain her broad-lipped Flitting about in the fragrant air,
earthen cup, And heard no sound from the larks, Said to herself, with a weary sigh, but flew
“ To-morrow the swallows will northFlashing under the blinding blue.
She swept the draughty pleasance,
The blooms had left the trees, THERE's one great bunch of stars in The whilst the birds sang canticles, heaven
In cheery symphonies. That shines so sturdily,
Whiteness of the white rose, Wnere good Saint Peter's sinewy hand
Redness of the red, Holds up the dull gold-wroughten
She went to cut the blush-rose-buds key.
To tie at the altar-head; There's eke a little twinkling gem
And some she laid in her bosom,
And some around her brows,
And as she past, the lily-heads
All beck'd and made their bows. Shakes a-telling her rosary.
Scarlet of the poppy, There's one that flashes flames and fire, Yellow of the corn, No doubt the mighty rubicel,
The men were at the garnering, That sparkles from the centre point
A-shouting in the morn; l'the buckler of stout Raphael.
I chased her to a pippin-tree,
The waking birds all whist, And also there's a little star
And oh! it was the sweetest kiss So white a virgin's it must be;
That I have ever kiss'd.
A-drying round us set,
On one tile was a satyr,
On one a nymph at bay,
Methinks the birds will scarce be I saw her at the blossom-time,
home And loved her ever since !
To wake our wedding-day!
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
1850-1887. (Born in London in 1850. Son of Dr. Westland Marston, poet and dramatist. When he was ihree years of age he received, while at play with other children, a blow in one of his eyes, which finally, in 1871, resulted in total blindness. He began to compose at an early age, and his first volume of poems, Song Tide, appeared in 1871, when he was only twenty-one years of age, and speedily reached a second edition. In 1873 he visited Italy. In 1874 his second volume of poems, All in All, appeared. Soon after, he became a contributor to Scribner's Magazine, and also wrote more or less for English periodicals. Since 1876 he has been a frequent contributor to American periodical literature both in prose and verse. His third volume, Wind-Voices, was published in the autumn of 1883, and has been republished in this country.] PURE SOULS.
To whom as to the stars I raise my
eyes, Pure souls that watch above me from Draw me to your large skies, afar,
Where God and quiet are.