POETRY.
TRAFALGAR SQUARE IN SPRING.
(AFTER SPENSERO
I.
IN the wide square the sound of waters leaping Conjures a dream of some far upland spring,
And through the trees that all the space enring, A whisper of some woodland god is creeping ; Poor banished Nature keeping A little foothold here, hath wooed the air To enchant the circling roofs with magic sleights, To make of them a gay pavilion fair, Bedizened with all lovely opal lights, Transfigured to men's sights.
And far beyond the stately tower that lifts Its steadfast stories where the cloud-rack shifts, The Surrey uplands heave their plumy crown; And the faint fragrance of their hawthorn drifts E'en through the smoke-veil brown, And Pan breathes on the town, For token unto men, lest they forget To worship Mother Earth, whose milk is in them yet.
This a man sees, when he comes forth from viewing
The glow serene of some great Raphael,
Or on whose soul hath Turner cast his spell, The great Unrealised his soul pursuing With its calm silent wooing.
Art would not plunge us in that lower mood Which waits us in the traffic of the street, She would enforce with some sweet natural good All she has taught us in her own retreat, And keep us at her feet.
Also would England show him that high place Which is the brain of his most puissant race, And, near at hand, the altar of her faith, The tomb of those to whom she doeth grace, For that in life they kept their land from scathe; And all these things she layeth Before the eyes of men, so that they cease not yet To worship God on high, who did their souls beget.
M. N. PENSTONE.
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