THE WORSHIPPERS
When the young Spring in Betsey’s fingers sets The first white violets, And she hath reared them in her soft brown fist, Ev’n to my stooping mouth till they be kist:— Shall I allow my kiss more fainly lingers Among her baby fingers, Where (for all pride of perfume that they shed), The very violets be out-violetted?
Great is her portion whose auriferous mines Yield new-coin’d celandines, Her dowry hoarded in the hedge-row’s heart Till the March wind hath blown the buds apart; For her delight these gay-wrought tassels be By name Dog’s Mercury, For her delight I scour from wood to wood, Lured by one lode-star with her Babyhood.
Dare I avow then, Betsey, that your grove Hath not mine only love? Have we not quit a brave and bustling world For catkins and the cuckoo-pint uncurl’d? So, while your wind-blown cheek to mine you press, I know you’ll never guess Whereto my woodland incense I prefer— And that I worship you, dear worshipper.
LINES TO A JOURNALIST, ON HIS
PRAISING A NOBLE LORD
RECENTLY CREATED
[“Finally it is proof of his faith in his race and his country that he owns twenty thousand acres in England and fifteen thousand in Scotland; and he has no terrors even of Mr. Lloyd George’s budgets.”]
Permit, Dear Sir, that the judicious grieve Hearing you thus old Mammon’s faith profess And the career of commerce interweave With terms of more than standard unctuousness;
For (you yourself have said it) what reward Hope you enrolled among the sworn defenders Of one who, while you tender your regard, Remains impassive and regards his tenders?
True he has great possessions, well they might Stagger your brain and sway your understanding, His English leagues—while English paupers fight To hang their washing on a London landing;