O rooks, I love to watch through quiet eve Your mystic circles in the golden air, And in your solemn monotones conceive The instinct of a universal prayer. Welcome then, wide-winged blackamoors, who poise Inverted wigwams in the swaying heights, And cheer the windy March with clanging noise, Long may fate spare your labour and delights, Toilers and teachers strenuously good Like you I see life's gusty hours defy, Like you from earth they win their daily food, Like you they build their hopes and homes on high. UNA. We thank thee, gentle Spenser, for thy song Of Una, virgin Una brave and sweet, Whose eloquence subdued the Satyr throng, And bowed the tearful monsters to her feet. Nor song alone but prophecy was thine, Forecasting many a Una wise and mild, Who spends her loving life in toil divine, Taming street Arabs petulant and wild, The gutter offspring of a race obscure; Cheerly to these within their noxious dens The Cross she brings, nor doubts its shining pure Grace through the gloom and mercy will dispense, And though to scare the ribald from her way No guardian lion by her side doth move, The shield of faith she bears hath sovran sway, And the strong spirit of all-conquering love. [Illustration] LIGHTHOUSE BUILT LIKE A CHURCH. That tapering Pharos pierces night As would a church bell tower; And far and wide its streaming light Symbols the Church's power, Which flinging many a radiant clue O'er life's bewildering foam, Guides weary souls the darkness through To their celestial home. CHURCH IN THE VALLEY. A tree of life from Eden far, O lowly church, you stand! So stood the Lord whose sign you are, And blessed the barren land. A tower of strength you show to all Who recognise His grace: The tender lights which round you fall Write heaven upon your face. Your bells down in the hollow lea Cry as from sheltering nest, "Come all ye labouring men to Me, And I will give you rest." CHURCH BELLS AND SHEEP BELLS. The sheep bells tinkle from the knoll Faintly and sweet 'twixt far and near, But hark! at hand the funeral toll How solemn and how clear Each wafts a hint to faithful love Of ever-mingling wealth and woe, The energy of life above, The requiem below. Now sweeps the wholesome evening breath As tho' a voice from Heaven should fall, Blending the notes of life and death, And harmonising all. [Illustration] THE BROOK AT SUNSET. Could Pison or Pactolus old Eclipse our little stream to-night? What grape might yield a glossier gold, Such amber streams, And ruby gleams Fringed all along with dazzling light That ripples down thro' emerald meadows bright?