POETRY.
ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH. BEYOND the serried streets and mean, Beyond the houses grey,
I spread, beneath a sky grown clean, My apron to the day, Where men may rest and men may jest, 'Where men may dream or play.
Far out, far out, with fingers grim, I watch the dark walls spread, I see the fields I loved grow dim, Grow gashed with black and red, I see the lanes like ghosts flit by, Like ghosts among their dead, Till I alone, with bosom torn, Yet ah ! what tender hands, Am left upon a throne forlorn Above the stricken lands, One last poor hold of green and gold Above the falling sands.
Ah, poet clerks, ah, toilers pale, Ab, lovers poor and fond.
Still, still for you I guard the vale, The fir-tree and the frond, The little paths that bend and dip, The great white roads beyond, The crescent moon, the summer dusk, The deep enchanted trees, The little hills that hide the town, And slumber on my knees, The magic mirrors, bright and dark With stars and mysteries, The windy heights, the wider view, That yet your feet may win, Whence, far and clear, you still shall hear Some bugle, brave and thin, And thrill once more to songs of yore, And feel the old world spin.
Though close, so close, about my feet, The smoke-drift hides the mob, The fly-wheels whirl, the pistons beat, The engines shriek and sob, Though fast between a thousand wharves The burdened waters throb, Still, still for you my dusty glades Lead down to doors of dreams, Still, still for you, through brake and bough, An air celestial streams, The night grows deep, the planets wheel, The Star supernal beams.
And still, beyond the houses mean, Above the city grey, I hold for you a sky swept clean, I guard one sacred way, Where you may rest or you may jest, Where you may dream and pray.
H. H. BAMFORD.
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