The swallows are flying beside the wood, And the corbies are hoarsely crying; And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood, And, thorough the hedge and over the road, On the grassy slope is lying: And the sheep are taking their supper-food While yet the rays are dying.
Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows, And giant-long shadows the trees are making; And velvet soft are the woodland tufts, And misty-gray the low-down crofts; But the aspens there have gold-green tops, And the gold-green tops are shaking: The spires are white in the sun's last light;— And yet a moment ere he drops, Gazes the sun on the golden slopes.
Two sheep, afar from fold, Are on the hill-side straying, With backs all silver, breasts all gold: The merle is something saying, Something very very sweet:— ‘The day—the day—the day is done:’ There answereth a single bleat— The air is cold, the sky is dimming, And clouds are long like fishes swimming.
Sydenham Wood, 1849.
An End
Love, strong as death, is dead. Come, let us make his bed Among the dying flowers: A green turf at his head; And a stone at his feet, Whereon we may sit In the quiet evening hours.
He was born in the spring, And died before the harvesting. On the last warm summer day He left us;—he would not stay For autumn twilight cold and grey Sit we by his grave and sing He is gone away.
To few chords, and sad, and low, Sing we so. Be our eyes fixed on the grass, Shadow-veiled, as the years pass, While we think of all that was In the long ago.
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This Periodical will consist of original Poems, Stories to develope thought and principle, Essays concerning Art and other subjects, and analytic Reviews of current Literature—particularly of Poetry. Each number will also contain an Etching; the subject to be taken from the opening article of the month.