Ah, Colin! ’tis a twice-told tale How that the woods were heard to wail, How birds with silence did complain, And fields with faded flowers did mourn, And flocks from feeding did refrain, And rivers wept for your return. Singer of England’s merriest hour, Return! return and make her flower, Charming your pipe unto your peers As once you did in other years; For we who wait on you, know this, Whatever tune your reed shall play Will hearken with as gladdened ears As Cuddy and as Thestylis, As Hobbinol and Lucida And all the simple shepherd-train, What time they gathered and ran, a gay Rejoicing happy-hearted rout, Across the sweetening meadow-hay Each calling other: “_Come about! The time of waiting is run out, And Colin Clout, O, Colin Clout, Colin Clout’s come home again!_”
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. [Illustration: leaf]
Bronwen gathered wild-flowers Up-and-down the lane; Her gathering touch upon them Sweeter was than rain.
Now a blossom overblown, Now a bud begun-- Her eye that lightened on them Was quicker than the sun.
One by one she named them, Oh, she did express In her pretty namings All their prettiness:
Some were fit for virgins, Some for merry dames, And the love with which she named them Was lovelier than their names.
When Joy and Molly on the lawn Danced bare of foot like spirits of dawn Jessica watched in wonderment Until delight would not be pent, And shoe and sock she cast in mirth And felt her naked toes touch earth. Swiftly the fresh green joy shot in Through the fresh young rosy skin, And in a golden glee the child Went dancing innocently-wild Up and down and round and round Like daisies covering the ground, Called sunward by the age-long spell No ages can destroy Of youth that never sighed or sinned,-- While elfin Molly and fairy Joy Danced on like lilies in a dell Or harebells in the wind.
Sylvia said that day, “I’ll sing if you will play.” We could deny not anything, Not even deny to hear her sing Who like a little spirit lay Uncertain whether to flutter its wing, To go or stay.
So though it broke our hearts for pity, With hidden face one went To the tinkling instrument, And one with bended head Stayed by the bed, While the small voice sang over and over its ditty:--