Because o’ simple, wide, and proudest worth
As English soil may give to English rule.
My head is bared before your richened birth,
My hand grips yours in cider-time and Yule!
And so again—more wonderful respite
I know not in the Inns of swinkèd lords,
With you upon my left hand and my right
And plenty of good ale upon the boards!
A health, a health, my lads, for very joy!
With such as you beside for love and life
We can with ease Dame Sorrowful destroy;
E’en toast the maid who will not be my wife!
T. W. EARP
(EXETER)
OUR LADY OF LIGHT
ON those eternal peaks of thought,
Where her bright crystal towers shine,
The many precious treasures brought
Seem its clear walls to incarnadine.
For all the varied colours heaped
There mingle in one general flush,
As through that lovely place there leaped
The rose-leaf burnish of a blush.
The golden arrowheads of wit,
The laughters of refinèd sense,
Diamond of sorrows infinite,
Calm, open looks of innocence,
And rubies, lovers’ burning hearts—
With these she decks her diadem,
Transmuting, by her learnèd arts,
Each to its own peculiar gem.
The jostling, crowded jewels show
In sparkling piles where colours dance,
And with angelic rosy glow
The ramparts of her palace glance.