POETRY.
COTON FIELDS.
(Verses for May-Week.) IN far and famous Turkestan,
Where desert winds are swift and strong, There dwells a sad and broken man Who hides old sorrows in a song. Often he sings of Coton fields, Where best of all wild roses blow, Where blossoms kiss the hedge that shields And all the branches murmur low.
Before his door the camels pass, And thousands throng the gay bazaar, But he would tread the long, sweet grass, That grows in Coton fields afar.
He sees the mosques of pompous Khans, The splendid shrine of Tamerlane, Beyond the " Tomb of Caravans," The "Steppes of Hunger," crossed in vain.
For be would spend a summer morn Where throbs the trembling lark on high, Where poppies flutter in the corn, And dark cloud-shadows wander by.
The gems and silks of Samarkand And all the gold of fair Tashkent He would bestow, with willing hand, So that his steps were homeward bent.
The flocks and tents of errant tribes The palaces of old renown, These would he count as sorry bribes For one more sight of Cambridge town.
And all the wealth of Genghis Khan,
And all Bokhara's gleaming store, These would he give—this broken man—
To see the Coton fields once more.
Prince, with the world before you, stay!
While dreaming Youth the sceptre wields, Spare, of your bounty, this one day To walk again in Coton fields.
E. H. MOYLE COOPER.
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