But in the true heart's core
Thought treasures evermore
The tune of birds and breeze:
And there the slow years store
The flowers our dead Springs wore
And scent of blossomed leas:
There murmurs o'er and o'er
The sound of woodlands hoar
With newly burgeoned trees.
So for the sad soul's ease
Remembrance treasures these
Against Time's harvesting,
That so, when mild Death frees
The soul from Life's disease
Of strife and sorrowing,
In glass of memories
The new hope looks and sees
Through Death a brighter Spring.
John Payne.
JULY.
(VIRELAI NOUVEAU.)
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
In the street the flower-girls cry;
In the street the water-carts ply;
And a fluter, with features a-wry,
Plays fitfully, "Scots, wha hae"—
And the throat of that fluter is dry;
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!
And over the roof-tops nigh
Comes a waft like a dream of the May;
And a lady-bird lit on my tie;
And a cock-chafer came with the tray;
And a butterfly (no one knows why)
Mistook my Aunt's cap for a spray;
And "next door" and "over the way"
The neighbours take wing and fly:
Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!
To Buxton, the waters to try,—
To Buxton goes old Mrs. Bligh;
And the Captain to Homburg and play
Will carry his cane and his eye;
And even Miss Morgan Lefay
Is flitting—to far Peckham Rye;
And my Grocer has gone—in a "Shay,"
And my Tailor has gone—in a "Fly;"—
Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye!