The hawthorn brave upon the green She hath a drooping smell and sad, But God put scent into the bean To drive each lass unto her lad. And woe betide the weary hour, For my love is in Normandy, And oh! the scent of the bean-flower Is like a burning fire in me. Fair fall the lusty thorn, She hath no curses at my hand, But would the man were never born That sowed the bean along his land! _W. FORCE STEAD_ (_QUEEN'S_) THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT (SONGS FROM A LYRICAL DRAMA, "THE BURDEN OF BABYLON") Babylon, the glory of the Kingdoms, And the Chaldees' excellency, Is become as Sodom and Gomorrah, Whom God overthrew by the sea. Never again inhabited, Babylon, O Babylon! Even the wandering Arabian From thy weary waste is gone. Neither shall the shepherd tend his fold there, Nor any green herb be grown: It cometh in the night-time suddenly, And Babylon is overthrown. Woeful are thy desolate palaces, Where doleful creatures cry, And wild beasts out of the islands In thy fallen chambers cry. Where now are the viol and the tabret? But owls hoot in moonlight: And over the ruins of Babylon The satyr leaps by night. Babylon is fallen, is fallen! And never shall be known again: Drunken with the blood of my Beloved, And trampling on the sons of men. But God is awake and aware of thee, And sharply shines His sword, Where over the earth spring suddenly The hidden hosts of the Lord: Armies of right and of righteousness, Huge hosts, unseen, unknown: And thy pomp, and thy revellings, and glory, Where the wind goes, they are gone. _L. A. G. STRONG_ (_WADHAM_) AT PUNNET'S TOWN A swell within her billowed skirts, Like a great ship with sails unfurled, The madwoman goes gallantly Upon the ridges of her world. With eagle nose and wisps of grey She strides upon the Westward Hills, Swings her umbrella joyously, And waves it to the waving mills, Talking and chuckling as she goes, Indifferent to sun or rain, With all that merry company The singing children of her brain. DALLINGTON Clouds all tumbled and white, Frowning clouds and grey; Dallington high on the hilltop, Dallington hears what they say. "Oh, I have come from the Channel." "And I from the Westward Hill Where Punnet's Town blinks at the sunset Between a mill and a mill." "I have showered on field and fallow Till I'm empty and dry," says one. "I scowled at the people in Cross-in-Hands, And was driven away by the sun." "Oh, I am primed for a fight, And if I can find one more To challenge my path in the heavens There'll be rumblings and flashes galore."