POETRY.
A DECEMBER ROSE.
FAIR pilgrim rose ! budding is spite of date In homely gardens where the sunlight falls, Breeze-haunted by a tune articulate In perfect melody on green-clad walls, Tell to this grey and ever-darkening isle The story of thy gracious winter-birth, And whisper, where the winter sunbeams smile, Thy simple secret to the poisoned Earth.
Tell her of One, who made the sun and air A refuge for the pent-up toiler's heart, So that from him, still through his pain and care, The touch of freedom never might depart : Tell her that where His open spaces lie, Still Heaven-reflected for the eye to scan, Though more and more man's greed the space deny, Lives yet His message to the Self of man.
The gloom is ours ; His the late lights that shine Serenely on thy modest petals yet, And frame with glory oak and eglantine, Where'er rude man his stamp delays to set.
Still through the undying beauty of thy frame On wings of music ride unwritten words, And restful spirits find all lands the same Where blooms the lovely life of flowers and birds.
The roses blush along my ivied wall, Where Wealth's keen hunt has yet forborne to tread ; And nothing but God's clouds can draw a pall Between me and His temple overhead.
The northern skies vie with the vaunted south, Wherever Nature has but air for breath, And answer from the one Creator's mouth That Life immortal has no space for Death.
Eastbourne. HERMAN C. MERIVALE.
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