For Love's a man now, strong and brave, To fight for you, for you to live, And Love, that once such bright songs gave, Has better things than songs to give; He gives you now a lifelong faith, A hand to help in joy or pain, And he will sing no more, till Death Shall come to make him young again! FROM THE ITALIAN. AS a little child whom his mother has chidden, Wrecked in the dark in a storm of weeping, Sleeps with his tear-stained eyes closed hidden And, with fists clenched, sobs still in his sleeping, So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady, What does he care though the rest are playing, With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady, Happy children, whom Joy takes maying! Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him Scolding the others, breaking their rattles, Smashing their drums, when their play comes near him-- Love who, for me, is a god of battles! IV. "OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKETH." In answer to those who have said that English Poets give no personal love to their country. ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations, Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong, Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations? Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song? O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden, Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring, Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing, What, if God sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing? Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises, What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast? Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies? Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest? Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow, Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere, Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow? Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear? Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom, Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam, Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom, Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home. Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver, Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free, Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river, Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?