27 NOVEMBER 1886, Page 15

POETRY.

OUR STREAM.

OUR Stream," my children call it—ours, although One emerald mead is all of our domain That drinks through every joyful, grassy vein 'The fruitful virtue of its overflow.

And yet " Our Stream ;" for none more dearly know Its unguessed fount deep in an upland lane Of Quantock—none more love to track the chain Of sinuous silver it uncoils below.

'Therefore "Our Stream," my children's stream and mine, By every mimic cataract, isle and bay Named by their lips—ours by each captured store Of primrose stars and honey-breathing bine, And cress, and nuts, and berries ; all, all its way To Norton Brook, " Our Stream" forevermore!

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.