He should be strong—as strong as Thor of old;
And faults of strength 'twere better he possessed
Than quavering mind or any lack of zest
When the time needs a right arm coolly bold.
Truth should to him be what the unpent song
Is to the soaring lark; with kindly thought
For everything that cold Misfortune's sought;
With earnest faith to fight a cause proved wrong.
A heart that finds the best in every man;
Impatient he should be at all delay
Or if not giv'n at once his own sweet way—
(But then a fault or two is Nature's plan),
Yet I would wish his chiefest fault should be
A wilfulness to see no fault in me!
SEMER WATER.
TO THE COMING SPRING
Hope and Spring! You are sisters!
In my woodlands
The primroses are peeping
With pale, sweet golden eyes,
In spite of Winter's weeping.
In my woodlands
A thrush has just swung, dipping,
In search of his spring voice;
The trees stand dripping, dripping.
In my woodlands
Harsh Winter coldly shivers;
The windflower, white adventurer,
With hope of springtime quivers.
Soon my woodlands,
Bearing bannerets of Spring,
Will be every moment musical
With birds that, mating, sing.