_So this is the chorus we will sing And this is the spot we’ll drink to, While blossom blows and Severn flows, And Earth has mugs to clink to._ The jovial priests to dust are gone, We cannot hear their singing; But still their merry chorus-song From newer lips runs ringing. And we who drink the sunny air And see the blossoms drifting, Will sit and sing the self-same thing Until the roof we’re lifting. _So this is the chorus we will sing, And this is the spot we’ll drink to, While blossom blows and Severn flows, And Earth has mugs to clink to._ [1] The ancient name of the parish was Mortune--that is, the village in the mere; and the name was changed to Minsterworth early in the fourteenth century because it belonged to the Minster or Abbey of Gloucester, and was the Minster’s “Worth” or farm where the cattle were kept.--F. W. H. CRICKET: THE CATCH Whizzing, fierce, it came Down the summer air, Burning like a flame On my fingers bare, And it brought to me As swift--a memory. Happy days long dead Clear I saw once more. Childhood that is fled:-- Rossall on the shore, Where the sea sobs wild Like a homesick child. Oh, the blue bird’s fled! Never man can follow. Yet at times instead Comes this scarlet swallow, Bearing on its wings (Where it skims and dips, Gleaming through the slips) Sweet Time-strangled things. WONDERS What magic is in common grass To bring this miracle to pass? That within it one should find Salves to give him peace of mind? --It’s very queer that garden weed Should minister to my soul’s need. What fairy in the falling rain Takes the robin’s small refrain, And twists it to a tiny charm To keep a tempted heart from harm? --It puzzles me a wild bird’s song Should save my soul from doing wrong. TRIOLET If Beauty were a mortal thing That died like laughter, grief, and lust, The poet would not need to sing. If Beauty were a mortal thing It would not wound us with its sting. We should lie happy in the dust If Beauty were a mortal thing That died like laughter, grief, and lust. TRIOLET Winter has hardened all the ground, But flowers are on the window-pane; No others are there to be found:-- Winter has hardened all the ground. But here, while Earth is bare and bound, Bloom ghosts of those his frost has slain. Winter has hardened all the ground, But flowers are on the window-pane. WHAT GOD SAID “This be a lesson,” said Life, with a frown-- And knocked me down. “And serve him right!” cried the goodly men, While I--I picked myself up, and then Went on just as I used to do.