Poetry

Font-Georges

(From the French of Theodore de Banville.)

DEAR fields, filled now with quiet, Where Childhood once ran riot, Where the days, in days of old, Were all of gold !

0 loved and ancient vale, Whereto the nightingale And crimson-throated robin Carried their sobbing !

White Cottage, where the vine Lifted its twisted line To catch what tears the eaves Wept on its leaves !

0 clear cool well, in the shade Of walnut boughs that made ,So brave pretence to be Old, yet-a. tree 1 - • O fountains, whose pure rains Were solace to my pains, And with my voice alone Matched their soft tone!

Pool, where the country wenches Washed linen, and on benches Beating it, pert and pretty, Sang many a ditty !

And hoar oak* secular, Whose withered front the scar Of thunder thrice had cleft And naked left !

And sanctuary in the dome Built by the verdurous gloom Of poplars .whose leaves sway The wind's sweet way !

And rows of purpling vine That border the hill-line, And in their teeming beds Toss winy heads !

Where, every harvest-tide, All the wine-countryside Circled the vats with song, The evening long !

0 valleys of sweet-briar, With what a falling fire, Like acorns from the oak, Your berries broke Covert of wind-swept reeds Where the frightened ring-dove breeds, And far, like a fiery billow, Shines one grey willow •

The cherry-laden trees, Girl-reapers to the knees Bare, paddling in the brook, Yet shy of look !

Antres and scented shade Of fountain-refreshed glade, And shadow of rock sought out In summer's drought !

Dear to my childhood, 0 rush Of waters, 0 forest, 0 hush Of Nature ! Yet less dear The spell you bear Than that dark garden-close, Sans greenery, sans rose, Too solemn with the shade Its yew-trees made !

And gravelled garden-ways, Where, on the day of days, That voice first took my ear, Than all more dear !

Where, with her hand in mine, Queen of love's dream divine, Of love my love full oft Spoke low and soft !

And now her fingers culled A daisy, and now pulled, Breaking, with listless art, Its petalled heart !

What time the stars, new-woke, Drew round them, cold, their cloak Of light, and fringed the hours With silver flowers ! II. W. GARROD.

* In the French it is the tree of the service-berry, in this country cnfamitiar.