POETRY.
THE WANDERERS' RETURN ON a day a while ago, When the corn was newly carried, And the late-come summer tarried For a glimpse of winter snow, Verse of mine, in fashion slight, Chronicled the swallows' flight :* Many a month has gone since then, And the land is green again.
Though the cuckoo will not sing Till he's very sure of spring, Tempted by this April sun Summer sends her vanguard on.
Here they come with wheel and bound, Flashing down and flying round, Twittering briskly as they fly, For a host of cares are theirs, Family matters, nest affairs, To be managed by-and-by.
Since that fine September day, • " An Autumn Flitting," Spectator, October 3rd, 1801. When they gathered on my roof, Swallow-wings have gone astray, Swallow-flights have held aloof, Far away.
Where the melon-orchards lie, Where the golden orange-groves Dip to sunny plains of sea, Rise to domes of sapphire sky, There the wandering swallow roves ; England yields to Italy.
Happy were the fate, to follow Summer with the flying swallow ; Happiest he, for though he roam,. He is everywhere at home. Here in England, who so well Knows our life of field and town, Looks from closer quarters down On our scheming, On our dreaming, Dwelling with us where we dwell F No ungenerous critic he ; But a neighbour who perceives, From beneath our very eaves, More than other neighbours see, Might embroil us with a word Were he not a friendly bird.
Safer friend or more discreet Surely it were hard to meet, For in his unconscious keeping Secrets of all lands are sleeping. Could he but his thoughts unravel, He might give us books of travel Tell us how the world wags on In Bavarian Ratisbon; What unlovely purpose lurks In the Czar's mind or the Turk's ; What the sleepless Sphinx would say If she spoke upon a day ; Whether Tiber ever dreams Of his old imperial streams ; Whether English girls or Roman Are the truer type of woman ; And what Maid of Athens now Fires a youthful poet's brow.
These are things that move him not ; In so practical a bird Much romancing were absurd : Here his heart is, on the spot.
He would like to know, no doubt, When the hawthorns will be out, And the May-flies all about; But the thoughts that please him best Are about a certain nest, Where he hopes, his mate and be, Some domestic joys to see : More important they than we !
GEORGE COTTERELL..
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