POETRY.

SOUTH WILTSHIRE.

" Show nes a country pleasanter than this country, Or a land, dearer than this land."

TEE waters flow between reed-beds, and the meadows are green in all seasons ;

They flow, those clear, quiet waters, through low arches of grey stone bridges,

And they lie in slender channels, holding the sky among grasses. The alders, and willows, and reed-beds, these clothe the banks of the river, And the willows are filled with the song and the stir of reed- buntings and warblers.

The high Downs encompass the valleys, white chalk-pits are set on the sheer slopes, Sheep feed on the grass of the upland, and browsing they follow their shepherd With the murmur and clank of the sheep-bells.

And the wide air rings with the sound Of the singing of myriad skylarks.

Crow's foot, and eyebright, and milk-wort, hawkweed, spiraea, and rock-rose, Are laid like a living garment on the infinite curves of the Down- land.

The thistle-down drifts and gathers in the hillocks and mounds of the thyme-roots, And the warm, scented winds of the summer are sharp with the resinous juniper.

The flint lies white in the sun, by the chalk on the side of the barrow, The flint that goes home to the hand, with the grip that convinces of usage ; It lies, side by side, with the snail-shell, the frail broken thing of a moment.

And here, on the green of the upland, is the circle of blue of the dew-pond.

Grave rooks alight on the paling, with a sheen on their wings, in the sunshine.

And around is the wheeling of plovers.

Away on the sheep-thridded pasture, On the infinite curves of the Downland, great tan-coloured hares sit hearkening, Their long ears seen against the horizon.

Here a wood feathers out on the Down, without wattle, or fence or paling, And the wild-rose grows among fir-trees, with the bramble and gorse and tall wood grass,

And the wind sings through the pine needles, with a sound of the Sea in the branches.

The hobby-hawk builds unmolested, and the badgers have made them a fastness.

And in woods, ages deep in their leaf mould, grow the helle- borines, under beeches.

Rare and remote and primitive, sounds the call of the stone-curlew.

Below in the lush wooded valleys, in the shade of the round- headed elm-trees, Thatched houses are gathered together, ancient churches uplift their grey towers.

Through the village street flows the clear bourne, in a channel grown greenly with silver-weed; And the children play by the water ; Narrow footbridges lead to the dwellings.

Here the barns have great rafters of oakwood, contrived by our fathers before us ; They are strong and of comely proportion, well fitted to uses commendable ; And the roofs of the barns are of straw-thatch, ample, and wide, and protective.

High in the rafters hang cobwebs, great cobwebs, like carpets from Persia.

The water-mills stand in the meadows, old mills, filled with sounding machinery; The floors and the ladders are worn and polished alike, with service, The air is fragrant and dim, it is veiled with the floating flour- meal.

And close to the mill in the meads are pollards and shining marsh- marigolds ;

The stones of the weather-worn sluices are thick with the lichens upon them.

The land of the low horizon, of infinite space and freedom!

The horses, in quiet field-labour, draw the plough, clear-cut, on the skyline On the ridge of the Down, where the strawricks turn gold in the flood of the sunset By the broad, darker stacks of dried clover on the farm-track that leads to the valley. The land of the low horizon, the long, safe lines of the Downland ; The land of the infinite skyline !

PAMELA TENNANT.