POETRY.
SUMMER IN LONDON.
THE smoke-pall hangs above us
And the dust is in our eyes; The sun is sinking red with wrath Across the cowering skies !
From the hiss of the feet on the pavement, From the howl of a passing dray, From the ceaseless throb of the sifting mob, Come away, come away !
For the sunlight's on the mountain, The mist is on the lake, The fragrance of the forest Is streaming through the brake; The North, the North is calling, The heather and the hill, The open sky, and the curlew's cry, And the wind that walks at will !
The hoot of the tug flings back the scream Of the checked impatient train, Where the loaded tide swings out to sea And welters back again : From the maze of the crowded shipping Where toil brooks no delay, From the glaring lights and the feverous nights, Come away, come away !
For the grouse are on the moorside, The unties in the whin, The falcon nests upon the cliff Above the roaring lin.
The purple hills are calling, Where the red-deer couch and stray, The chattering burn and the golden fern Are calling " Come away !"
W. T. L.
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