POETRY.
A DECEMBER RIDE.
On that we two were riding this morning, you and I,
Along the wind-swept Barham Down, beneath the pale blae sky !
How freshly, as we galloped, around us we should feel The winter air, cold, keen, and clear as pure Damascus steel, And far away to northward the Foreland line would be, The long white cliff where Ramsgate lies above the yellow sea, Beyond the Thanet levels and the open rolling land, Wide grass and brown copse-skirted fields where tented hop- poles stand.
'Twas in this same December that, seven long years ago, We rode along the ridge and down to Denton lying low, And through the bright chalk valleys, and, homeward turning, then We galloped through deserted Brome where once dwelt th' Oxenden.
Surely you must remember,—the boy who held the gate, The rose upon the cottage wall that soft year flowering late, Half laughing and half sighing, as we turned into the lane You said : " Who knows if you and I shall ride through Brome again."
And so through Barham village and Bishopsbourne we passed, And down the long, low street of Bridge, and gained the crest at last,
From where, more gently riding as we neared our journey's end, We see around Bell Harry Tower the circling shades descend.
When we two rode together ! I never shall forget How long so e'er my natal span of life on earth be set ; Bnt you,—do you remember ? Ah ! who can surely say If to the souls that rest in peace such memories find a way ?
B. H. H.
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