POETRY.
A KENTISH SCENE.
JUST where the London road dips down To rise once more through Harbledown, Where, underneath the woods of Blean, The sheltered hops grow dark and green, Where Chaucer, with his pilgrim crew Riding, immortal portraits drew (For here " in Canterbury way" Our host began to " jape and play"), Where many a knight, returning home From wars in France or prayers at Rome, With a light heart and easy vein, Breathing the keen, pure air again, Saw the bright land with doubled zest, And thought, " Old England's aye the best,"
Here Hopebourne lies, and, to my mind,
A prettier scene you will not find.
To north and east the curving hill Keeps off rude winds that blow too chill; The garden slopes to the winter suns; Below, the Neilbourne brooklet runs ; Beyond it lies our valley's bound, The cheerful rise of hop-clad ground, And in the distance high plough lands, Where seaward the chalk ridge expands; Orchards, a windmill, fields of wheat Make the old Kentish scene complete. B. H. H.
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