POETRY.
A CURLEW.
Bird of the Marshland ! 'Voice of the Wasteness ! Who with thy poignance Woundeth the air, Why should thy song of Mating and nesting Sound as an agony Taunting the Spring ?
Art thou a penitent Pleading for shriving, Worn with a secret Srrievons and fell ? Art thou some anguisht Ghost of a dead race, Telling thy wrongs in a Language forlorn ? OVER the marshes Crieth a curlew ; Wild is its music, Weird as its home; Over the desolate Pits of black water, Over the hoar, withered Grass it is borne.
Far away, far away, Hark ! it is fading ; Nearer, ah ! nearer 'Comes it again; Rises a billow Crested with passion; Faltereth, breaketh, Falleth anew. Art thou bemoaning How the fierce vulture Tears at the bleeding Heart of the world ? Hast thou no refuge Left for thy spirit From the mysterious Sorrow of earth ?
Or is the keenest Pang of thy torment That thou must bear it Ever alone ?
That all unheeded Falleth thy warning, Foiled by our dullard Spirit and ear ?
Bard of the Marish Not with condoling From thy high sadness Turn I away; Is not thy wailing Part of the beauty, Part of the tender Charm of the year ?
And if I know the Soul of a poet, Thou East appeasement Found in thy song ; Yea, in the mournfullest Trill of thy plaining Knowest a rapture Deeper than joy.
R. H. LAW.
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