AT THE MILL.

Swallows, skimming o’er the shallows,

Where, above the reeds and mallows,

May-flies hover light,

As ye course o’er flood and lea,

Twitter of my love to me—

Cometh he to-night?

Insect-mazes, softly droning

O’er the mill-stream’s fitful moaning,

In your wayward flight,

Murmur o’er the bridge’s cope

Lullabies to dreaming Hope—

Cometh he to-night?

Weave your flaming splendours o’er me,

Evening clouds that float before me,

Rosy, gold, and white;

Flood my soul with pearly rays,

Harbingers of halcyon days—

Cometh he to-night?

Flowers that lade the zephyr’s fleetness

With the burden of your sweetness,

Cheer me, calm and bright.

Sweet as you my thoughts shall spring,

When his soft-tongued whispering

Breathes o’er me to-night.

Fickle he as swallow’s glancing;

Wavering as the May-fly’s dancing

In the waning light!

Flimsy as the clouds above,

Frail as petals all his love!

Where is he to-night?

He is here! my homebound swallow;

True to me as May-flies follow

Streamlets to alight.

Fair as skies in sunset hours,

Sweeter far than honeyed flowers,

Comes my love to-night!

F. H. Wood.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Near Weston, one of the seats of the Earl of Bradford, in Shropshire, there is a field locally called the ‘Falfalarie Field,’ which people annually visit for the sake of the fritillary, which abounds there, as it does in Christ Church Meadows, Oxford.