Yet, oh ye Powers whose rule is set above These fair abodes that ring the firmament, Spirits of Peace and Happiness and Love, And thou, too, mild-eyed Spirit of Content, Ye will not chide if sometimes in her play The child should start and droop her shining head, Turning in meek surmise Her wistful eyes Back tow'rd the dimness of our mortal day And the loved home from which her soul was sped. Soon shall our little Wilma learn to be Amid the immortal blest An unrepining guest, Who now, dear heart, is young for your eternity. CRAGWELL END I There's nothing I know of to make you spend A day of your life at Cragwell End. It's a village quiet and grey and old, A little village tucked into a fold (A sort of valley, not over wide) Of the hills that flank it on either side. There's a large grey church with a square stone tower, And a clock to mark you the passing hour In a chime that shivers the village calm With a few odd bits of the 100th psalm. A red-brick Vicarage stands thereby, Breathing comfort and lapped in ease, With a row of elms thick-trunked and high, And a bevy of rooks to caw in these. 'Tis there that the Revd. Salvyn Bent (No tie could be neater or whiter than _his_ tie) Maintains the struggle against dissent, An Oxford scholar _ex Aede Christi_; And there in his twenty-minute sermons He makes mince-meat of the modern Germans, Defying their _apparatus criticus_ Like a brave old Vicar, A famous sticker To Genesis, Exodus and Leviticus. He enjoys himself like a hearty boy Who finds his life for his needs the aptest; But the poisoned drop in his cup of joy Is the Revd. Joshua Fall, the Baptist, An earnest man with a tongue that stings-- The Vicar calls him a child of schism-- Who has dared to utter some dreadful things On the vices of sacerdotalism, And the ruination Of education By the Church of England Catechism.