POETRY.
TIRED of the clamour and the heat Which now oppress the expectant town, To-day I turn my weary feet To where the Minster huge looks down Upon St. Margaret's subject tower ; Here let me rest and dream an hour.
Hard by, the stems of giant pines Stripped bare, and bound in scaffoldings, Proclaim in long unlovely lines How fugitive the pomps of kings! How full of rest, to muse to-day On things which will not pass away !
Here still inviolate the grass !
Here, like new-fallen, big-flaked snow, A boon to weary eyes which pass, The long-descended daisies grow. How brief a history, to these, Have kings' and barons' pedigrees Here England's saintly Edward walked Around the Minster where he prayed, And watched the daisies, supple-stalked, Dance in the dappled light and shade. Here still the grass and daisies grow, While generations pass like snow.
How full of peace to watch the sun Pour his cascades of golden light Over the pinnacles which shun His rays by day, the moon's by night ; How far more precious common things Like these, than all the pomps of kings I Here soon our King will pass along To the high fane to take his crown ;
Here soon his loyal millions throng—
I, no less loyal, on some down, Will watch the skylark poise in air, And hear his song, and breathe my prayer.
"0 Power by Whom the world is swayed To purposes beyond our ken, By Whom the lily is arrayed
In beauty never dreamed by men, Preserve our King ! Bless his intent To live Thy willing instrument !
"Keep him, and her who shares his throne, Untouched by Pride, unspoiled by Power ! Grant them, not length of days alone, But Joy, which makes life's fleeting hour Fall oft a realm where poor men reign, Happy, while monarchs serve in vain."
JOHN BMW LOFT.
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