A slave with soul on freedom bent he stands, His eyes ablaze with restless ecstasy, While all around him breathes magnificence Of power imperial over many lands. Within his slender hand he holds a rose; Raising his head, he murmurs, "_Mighty King! Do good unto thy servant while thou canst: Thou may'st not always mitigate his woes._ "_Like to this fleeting glory, carmined deep, The season of thy power is transient: Do good, whilst yet thou canst--'before thine eyes Close in thy last, forgetting, silent sleep._" O blood-red rose! Thy petals bring to me The sunlit beauty of the Persian Court, The voice of Saadi, pleading with the king His freedom granted on thy crimson plea. A ROSE-GARDEN IN AIREDALE. THE DIFFERENCE When the factories all are silenced, And night brings her balm of sleep, What are your last dear waking thoughts Ere you drift into slumber deep? Why, Darling Mine! they are all of work, As your mind reviews the day: Of the men you meet, of progress made, Of struggles to make your way. But I--when I nestle among the sheets, Ere sleep my tired eyes woo, Just count and repeat the loving words That have fall'n to-day from you! AIREDALE. SONG OF THE PRIMROSES Listen to the infant breeze, Clutching at the nippled trees, Where our yellow flowers are blowing, Where the rivulet is flowing. Over all the blue-cupped sky Silver brooding clouds swim by; See! The firstling swallow flying, Later, owlets will be crying. Come and mark the painter sun Daub the earth with golden fun; Hear the larches' fingers snapping, As if goblin hands were clapping. Smell the rain-sweet, thymy earth, Feel the wonder of rebirth! Far away a cuckoo's calling, Notes that sound like twin bells falling. Then a clearer voice replies To his echo ere it dies, And the blackbirds' voices mingle With th' Eistedfodd in the dingle. Gold-green poplars slowly wave O'er the Winter's mossy grave; Ferns are pointing curly fingers Where the dead year's bracken lingers. We have seen a hedgehog hide Prickle-less to greet his bride; Watched the baby otter shiver Ere he plunged into the river. We are critics of the bees, Watch how they despoil and seize From each cowslip saffron bounty; Uncaught robbers of the county! All the keenings of the bat, Whimperings of the water-rat; All the hopes of sister flowers Come to us by gossip showers. Tortoise-shelled butterflies, On their dew-pearl'd wingful sighs, Bear the news of elfin squabbles; "Wounded Oberon still hobbles." We are darlings of the Spring, All her secrets she doth bring, Runes of magic she discloses To her confidant-Primroses. ENVOI