For they sleep within her Christian fold Under her consecrated mould, Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told. But under the hill, in the leaves somewhere, Lie a mother and child all stark and bare, Save only a comb in the coal-black hair-- Yet God will remember they lie out there. Whilst digging up a hitherto uncultivated bit of garden near the Mendips, a gardener came across the mutilated skeletons of a woman and baby. A comb still decorated the woman's coal-black hair. At the inquest afterwards held upon the skeletons, it was suggested that the woman and her baby were probably refugees from the battle of Sedgemoor. Bitterness Casteth Out Love Over the hill where the white road sweeps, And the dead fern holds the snow, Love flew by, and the black night sky Shadowed the vales below. Down in the creek, where the ice-pools gleam And the trees stand gaunt and bare, I crouched me down, and the sullen frown Of earth entombed me there. "Ah," mocked the ice-pool, hard and clear, "Man with the frozen soul; Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky, With the tears that sorrow stole." "Gone," said the fern, "from your frost-bound touch; Gone from your winter's heart. Love flew by, like the tattered sigh Bitterness tore apart." And the aching trees bowed branch and twig And a shrivelled leaf made cry, "If you are cold, and your heart be old, For certain, Love must die." Over the hill, where the white road sweeps, And the dead fern holds the snow, Sweet Love fled; and a spirit dead Spectres the slopes below. The Hour of Happiness The world is fair! The circling swell Of fresh tumultuous sea Holds life within its rhythmic rise And bursts of harmony; And storm-clouds chasing down the sky Empty their hearts as they sweep by. The world is gay!--Such lilt and song, Such mellowness of tune, Such drifting airs from wave and shore, From rock and sand and dune. I did not know that clouds of spray Splashed as they fell, a roundelay. A magic day! A magic hand Has raised a magic mood. Oh! years ago God made the world And saw that it was good. And from His ecstasy divine I borrowed this sweet hour of mine. Thoughts So fair, so delicate the thoughts, He marvelled they could be his own; He did not dream that they were birds From heaven flown. Birds with a message in their throats, Limpid and golden from the sky. Most wonderful his song. 'Twas strange He knew not why. They fluttered their white wings awhile Then soared again to paradise, Leaving a trail of limpid notes For sacrifice. The Things Unsaid are the Things that Count!