Ring, ting! it is the merry springtime,

How full of heart a body feels! Sing hey, trolly lolly, oh, to live is to be jolly,

When spring-time cometh with the summer at her heels!

THE SONG OF THE HUNT

(OLD WARWICKSHIRE)

THE hunt is up, the hunt is up;
Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!
The wild birds sing,
The dun deer fling,

The forest aisles with music ring!
Tantara, tantara, tantara!

Then ride along, ride along,
Stout and strong!

Farewell to grief and care;
With a rollicking cheer
For the high dun deer

And a life in the open air!
Tantara, the hunt is
up, lads ;
Tantara, the bugles bray!
Tantara, tantara, tantara,
Hio, hark away!

GOD BLESS YOU, DEAR, TODAY!

IF there be graveyards in the heart
From which no roses spring,
A place of wrecks and old gray tombs
From which no birds take wing,
Where linger buried hopes and dreams
Like ghosts among the graves,
Why, buried hopes are dismal things,
And lonely ghosts are knaves!

If there come dreary winter days,
When summer roses fall

And lie, forgot, in withered drifts
Along the garden wall;
If all the wreaths a lover weaves
Turn thorns upon the brow, -
Then out upon the silly fool
Who makes not merry now!

For if we cannot keep the past,

Why care for what 's to come? The instant's prick is all that stings, And then the place is numb. If Life's a lie and Love's a cheat, As I have heard men say, Then here's a health to fond deceit God bless you, dear, to-day!

HER ANSWER

TO-DAY, dear heart, but just to-day,
The sunshine over all,

The roses crimsoning the air
Along the garden wall!

Then let the dream and dreamer die;
Whate'er shall be, shall be -

To-day will still be thine and mine
To all eternity.

And oh, there is no glory, dear,
When all the world is done,
There is no splendor lasteth out
The sinking of the sun;
There is no thing that lasts, not one,
When we have turned to clay,
But this: you loved me all the rest
Fades with the world away.

So little while, so little while

This world doth last for us, There is no way to keep it, dear, But just to spend it thus. There is no hand may stop the sand From flowing fast away But his who turns the whole glass down And dreams 't is all to-day.

THE LAST BOWSTRINGS THEY had brought in such sheafs of hair, And flung them all about us there

In the loud noonday's heat and glare:
Gold tresses, far too fine to wind,
And brown, with copper curls entwined,
And black coils, black as all my mind.

In the low, stifling armory,
Whence we could hear, but might not flee,
The roar of that engirdling sea,
Whose waves were helmet-crests of foes,
Winding the cords we sat, in rows,
Beside a mound of stringless bows.

Since the first hill-scouts panted in,
Before siege-fires and battle din
Filled night and day, and filled within
Our hearts and brains with flame and sound,
We had sat, huddled on the ground,
Our tears hot on the cords we wound.

We knew, when the first tidings came,
That not the gods from death or shame
Could save us, fighting clothed in flame.
The mid-sea's marshalled waves are few
Beside the warriors, girt with b'ue,
The gorged hill-passes then let through.

Their spears shook like ripe, standing corn,
Gold lakes that on the plains are born,
And nod to greet the golden morn;
After these years the earth yet reels,
And after shows and showers feels
The deluge of their chariot wheels.

Against our walls their flood was dammed,
Within which, till each porch was jammed,
Farm-folk and fisher-folk were crammed;
Heaped stones inside the gates were piled,
While all above us, calm and mild,
In bitter scorn the heavens smiled.

Our men dwelt on the walls and towers,
From over which, for endless hours,
The hissing arrows flew in showers;
The sling-stones, too, came crashing down,
As though the gods of far renown
Hurled thunderbolts into the town.

Where the hung temples showed their lights,

Some women prayed upon the heights;
Some stole about throughout the nights,-
Who bore the warriors food by day, -
Gleaning the arrows as they lay
That they might hurtle back to slay.

And where the rooms were heaped with stores,

Because the stringless bows were scores,
We were shut in with guarded doors;
All day at hurried toil we kept,

And when the darkness on us crept We lay, each in her place, and slept.

Quick as we worked, we could not make
Strings fast as bowmen came to take
Fresh bows; and oh, the grinding ache
Of hearts and fingers: maid and slave
And princess, we toiled on to save
Home that already was our grave.

Six days we wound the cords with speed;
Naught else from us had any heed,
For bitter was our rage and need.
At last, upon the seventh day,
Into the fury of the fray

They called our very guard away.

No food was brought us. Faint with thirst, What wonder was it if, at first,

Some wailed that the town gates were burst?

If, later, to the last embraces

Of child or mother, from their places
Some slunk away with ashen faces?

I cursed them through the door unbarred;
I vowed I would not move a yard,
Lest some one man of ours, pressed hard,
Might be left weaponless alone..
Until I died or turned to stone,

I would wind, were the hair mine own.

A sudden shiver shook my frame,
I looked up with my face aflame;
But oh, no tongue has any name
For the despair I saw enthroned
In my love's eyes, all purple-zoned!
I smiled to greet him, and I groaned.

He buckled on a fresh cuirass,
His own was but a tattered mass
Of gory thongs. I saw him pass
Out of the portal; with good-byes
And blessings filled, and yearning sighs,
For the last time I saw his eyes.

Each moment, all my blood arcel,
I felt the thrust of deadly steel

I knew his body soon must feel.
My heart was choked with prayerful speech;
The high, deaf gods were out of reach,
My eyes dry as a noonday beach.

More cowards left. Few now remained.
Still at our task we strove and strained

With bleeding hands, and iron-brained; And still my fingers all were fleet, Though in my temples burned and beat The murmur of the stunning heat.

There rushed in for fresh arms just then
Some of our allies, small, dark men;
It slowly dawned upon my ken
That one, who by a spear-heap kneeled,
Fierce-browed and grimy from the field,
Carried my brother's painted shield.

My heart beat in long, tearing throbs;
Sharp torch-lights stormed my eyes in mobs,
And my breath came in rasping sobs;
The tears from both my cheeks I wrung;
So wet my hands were that they clung
Slipping along the cord I strung.

Mutely we toiled until my maid,
Her lips tense as the strands she laid,
Grew wan; her deft, quick fingers strayed:
Then she pitched forward with a groan,
And lay, white, motionless, and prone.
I wound on hastily, alone.

Harsh and unevenly outside
Shields clanged. Men called, and cursed,
and cried;

And when again the latch was tried
My knife lay somewhere on the floor.
Alas! I found it not before

Three armored foemen burst the door.

GENIUS

HE cried aloud to God: "The men below Are happy, for I see them come and go, Parents and mates and friends, paired, clothed with love;

They heed not, see not, need not me above, — I am alone here. Grant me love and peace, Or, if not them, grant me at least release."

God answered him: "I set you here on high Upon my beacon-tower, you know not why. Your soul-torch by the cruel gale is blown, As desperate as your aching heart is lone. You may not guess but that it shines iu vain,

Yet, till it is burned out, you must remain."

He sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold,

And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns.

The straggling fences all are interlaced With pink and purple morning-glory blooms;

The starry asters glorify the waste,

While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes.

Yet still amid the splendor of decay

The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead,

The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away,

The lovely summer songsters that have fled,

And lonesome in a haunt of withered vines, Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, Pale Summer for her perished kingdom pines,

And all the glories of her golden sheaves.

In vain October wooes her to remain

Within the palace of his scarlet bowers, Entreats her to forget her heart - break pain,

And weep no more above her faded flowers.

At last November, like a conqueror, comes
To storm the golden city of his foe;
We hear his rude winds like the roll of
drums,

Bringing their desolation and their woe.

The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood, Splashes its giant glowing waves on high, The forest flames with blazes red as blood,

A conflagration sweeping to the sky.

Then all the treasures of that brilliant state

Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre; October, like a King resigned to fate, Dies in his forests with their sunset fire.

HE WHO HATH LOVED

IIE who hath loved hath borne a vassal's chain,

And worn the royal purple of a king; Hath shrunk beneath the icy Winter's sting,

Then revelled in the golden Summer's reign; He hath within the dust and ashes lain, Then soared o'er mountains on an eagle's wing;

A hut hath slept in, worn with wandering, And hath been lord of castle-towers in Spain.

He who hath loved hath starved in beggar's cell,

Then in Aladdin's jewelled chariot driven; He hath with passion roamed a demon fell,

And had an angel's raiment to him given; His restless soul hath burned with flames of hell,

And winged through ever-blooming fields of heaven.