Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast;
Laughed softly in a flattered happy way,
Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest,
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.
. . . . . . . . . .
The shade crept forward through the dying glow;
There came no more nor dame nor cavalier;
But for a little time the brass will show
A small gray spot—the record of a tear.
Austin Dobson.
SPRING SONG.
HERALD of peace and joy,
Lone on the bough;
Minstrel without alloy.
What flutest thou?
Violet, hiding low,
Fragrant and shy,
What message bearest thou
Voiced in thy sigh?
Buds that unloose your hasp
Long cased in mail,
Wrest from grim Winter’s grasp,
Freed from his pale;
Brooklets, swift hurrying,
Purling your chime.
What is the theme ye sing
Endless as Time?
“We sing the sun,” they say,
“We sing the spring;
Love crowns our holyday,
Love is our king.”
E’en so the thought of Thee
Rapture doth bring,
Yielding delight to me
Dearer than spring;
Blither than robin’s strain,
Fairer than flowers;
Fresh as the vernal rain,
Bright as the hours.
Thy smile my sun, I ween,
Thine eyes my May:
All thy sweet grace, my Queen,
Fondly, I pray,