Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,—
The wandering flock. This verse of mine
Will rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,
O babbling Spring!
Austin Dobson.
"ON LONDON STONES."
On London stones I sometimes sigh
For wider green and bluer sky;—
Too oft the trembling note is drowned
In this huge city's varied sound;—
"Pure song is country-born,"—I cry.
Then comes the spring,—the months go by,
The last stray swallows seaward fly;
And I—I too!—no more am found
On London stones!
In vain! the woods, the fields deny
That clearer strain I fain would try;
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground;
Abroad she pouts;—she is not shy
On London stones!
Austin Dobson.
A RONDEAU TO ETHEL.
"In teacup-times!" The style of dress
Would suit your beauty, I confess;
Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;
I picture you with powdered hair,—
You'd make a charming Shepherdess!