Ruins of a church with its miraculous well, O’er which the Christ, a squat-limbed dwarf of stone, Great-eyed, and huddled on his cross, has known The sea-mists and the sunshine, stars that fell And stars that rose, fierce winter’s chronicle, And centuries of dead summers. From his throne Fronting the dawn the elf has ruled alone, And saved this region fair from pagan hell. Turn! June’s great joy abroad; each bird, flower, stream Loves life, loves love; wide ocean amorously Spreads to the sun’s embrace; the dulse-weeds sway, The glad gulls are afloat. Grey Christ to-day Our ban on thee! Rise, let the white breasts gleam, Unvanquished Venus of the northern sea!
Passion and song, and the adornèd hours Of floral loveliness, hopes grown most sweet, And generous patience in the ripening heat, A mother’s bosom, a bride’s face of flowers --Knows Nature aught so fair? Witness ye Powers Which rule the virgin heart of this retreat To rarer issues, ye who render meet Earth, purged and pure, for gracious heavenly dowers! The luminous pale lake, the pearl-grey sky, The wave that gravely murmurs meek desires, The abashed yet lit expectance of the whole, --These and their beauty speak of earthly fires Long quenched, clear aims, deliberate sanctity,-- O’er the white forehead lo! the aureole.
What relic of the dear, dead yesterday Shall my heart keep? The visionary light Of dawn? Alas! it is a thing too bright, God does not give such memories away. Nor choose I one fair flower of those that sway To the chill breathing of the waterfall In rocky angles black with scattering spray, Fair though no sunbeam lays its coronal Of light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleam I choose, nor eve’s red glamour; ’twas at noon Resting I found this speedwell, while a stream, That knew the immemorial inland croon, Sang in my ears, and lulled me to a dream Of English meadows, and one perfect June.
A venal singer to a thrumming note Chanted the civic war-song, that red flower Of melody seized in a sudden hour By frenzied winds of change, and borne afloat A live light in the storm; and now by rote To a cold crowd, while vague and sad the tide Loomed after sunset and the grey gulls cried, The verses quavered from a hireling throat. Wherefore should English eyes their right forbear, Or droop for smitten France? let the tossed sou, Before they turn, be quittance for the stare. O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse true To lift that cry “_To Arms!_” alone would dare, My heart received a golden alms from you!