S

Scarlett's Song

ING a song of scarlet poppies in the corn,
Sing a song of rosy blossoms on the thorn;
Sing a song of robins chirping all the day
When nests are empty and the skies are gray.

Sing a song of scarlet hips upon the brier,
Sing a song of dead boughs reddening in the fire;
Sing a song of red suns, frost and tingling blood,
Sing a song of autumn flushing all the wood.

Sing a song of Scarlett when the frosts begin,
Heaping on the camp-fire store of prickly whin.
Sing a song of Marian laughing through the wood,
Sing a song of roses grown for Robin Hood.

Nora Chesson.

The Death of Puck

FEAR that Puck is dead-it is so long
Since men last saw him-dead with all the
rest

Of that sweet elfin crew that made their nest
In hollow nuts, where hazels sing their song;

Dead and for ever, like the antique throng
The elves replaced; the Dryad that you guessed
Behind the leaves; the Naiad weed-bedressed;
The leaf-eared Faun that loved to lead you wrong.

Tell me, thou hopping Robin, hast thou met
A little man, no bigger than thyself,

Whom they call Puck, where woodland bells are wet?

Tell me, thou Wood-Mouse, hast thou seen an elf
Whom they call Puck, and is he seated yet,
Capped with a snail-shell, on his mushroom shelf?

II

The Robin gave three hops, and chirped, and said:
"Yes, I knew Puck, and loved him; though I trow
He mimicked oft my whistle, chuckling low;
Yes, I knew cousin Puck; but he is dead.

We found him lying on his mushroom bed—
The Wren and I-half covered up with snow,
As we were hopping where the berries grow.
We think he died of cold. Ay, Puck is fled."

And then the Wood-Mouse said: "We made the Mole
Dig him a little grave beneath the moss,
And four big Dormice placed him in the hole.

The Squirrel made with sticks a little cross;
Puck was a Christian elf, and had a soul;
And all we velvet jackets mourn his loss."

T

Eugene Lee-Hamilton.

A Song of England

HERE is a song of England that none shall ever sing;

So sweet it is and fleet it is

That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,

And regal as her mountains,

And radiant as the fountains

Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling

Against the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,

Could more than seem to dream of it,

Or catch one flying gleam of it,

Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.

There is a song of England that only lovers know;
So rare it is and fair it is,

Oh, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of snow,
So cold and sweet and sunny,

So full of hidden honey,

So like a flight of butterflies where rose and lily blow Along the lanes of England, the leafy lanes of England; When flowers are at their vespers

And full of little whispers,

The boys and girls of England shall sing it as they go.

There is a song of England that only love may sing,
So sure it is and pure it is;

And seaward with the sea-mew it spreads a whiter wing,
And with the sky-lark hovers

Above the tryst of lovers,

Above the kiss and whisper that led the lovely Spring Through all the glades of England, the ferny glades of England

Until the way enwound her

With sprays of May, and crowned her

With stars of frosty blossom in a merry morris-ring.

There is a song of England that haunts her hours of rest; The calm of it and balm of it

Are breathed from every hedgerow that blushes to the West:

From the cottage doors that nightly

Cast their welcome out so brightly

On the lanes where laughing children are lifted and caressed

By the tenderest hands in England, hard and blistered hands of England;

And from the restful sighing

Of the sleepers that are lying

With the arms of God around them on the night's contented breast.

There is a song of England that wanders on the wind; So sad it is and glad it is

That men who hear it madden and their eyes are wet and blind,

For the lowlands and the highlands

Of the unforgotten islands,

For the Islands of the Blessed and the rest they cannot find

As they grope in dreams to England and the love they left in England;

Little feet that danced to meet them

And the lips that used to greet them,

And the watcher at the window in the home they left behind.

There is a song of England that thrills the beating blood

With burning cries and yearning

Tides of hidden aspiration hardly known or understood; Aspirations of the creature

Tow'rds the unity of Nature;

Sudden chivalries revealing whence the longing is renewed

In the men that live for England, live and love and die for England:

By the light of their desire

They shall blindly blunder higher,

To a wider, grander Kingdom and a deeper, nobler Good.

There is a song of England that only God can hear;
So gloriously victorious,

It soars above the choral stars that sing the Golden
Year:

Till even the cloudy shadows

That wander o'er her meadows

In silent purple harmonies declare His glory there, Along the hills of England, the billowy hills of England; While heaven rolls and ranges

Through all the myriad changes

That mirror God in music to the mortal eye and ear.

There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;
So sweet it is and fleet it is

That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,

And regal as her mountains,

And radiant as the fountains

Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling Against the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England, Could more than seem to dream of it,

Or catch one flying gleam of it,

Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.

Alfred Noyes.

The Beauty of England

LEARNT to love that England. Very oft, Before the day was born, or otherwise Through secret windings of the afternoons, I threw my hunters off and plunged myself Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag Will take the waters, shivering with the fear And passion of the course. And when, at last