POETRY.
BLOW fresh, ye Winds, blow fresh and strong, Sing loud, dear Lark, your sweetest song,— In the deep blue, sing loud and long.
Shine brightly, Sun, in summer might, Flood all the fields with golden light, And drive far off the envious night.
To-day there is no room for care, A heavenly beauty fills the air,— Fair is God's world, yea, very fair Upon our peaceful English shore, Heaven's love is resting evermore, And wealth of Heaven a boundless store.
From east to west, from south to north, No voice of discord echoes forth,—
We hear no muttering sounds of wrath ; But careless song of youth and maid, Mirth-making in the woodland glade, At leisure in September's shade, With music of the bird and bee, And hum of civic industry,
Are borne o'er England's guardian sea.
Deep is our peace, while from afar Roll on the murd'rous wheels of War, And Famine's Juggernautine car.
Far off, our brethren cry to Heaven, By lust, and bate, and hunger driven,— Scathed as the oak by lightning riven.
Here, bask we in serenest light, There, horrors crowd from morn to night ; And love is lust, and might is right. JOHN DENNIS,
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