SEASON TOKENS

THE shades may show the time of day,

And flowers, how summer wanes away.

Where thyme on turfy banks may grow,
Or mallows, by the laneside ledge,
About the blue-barr'd gate, may show
Their grey-blue heads, beside the hedge,
Or where the poppy's scarlet crown
May nod by clover, dusky red,

Or where the field is ruddy brown,

By brooks, with shallow-water'd bed.

The shades may show the time of day, And flow'rs, how summer wanes away.

Or, where the light of dying day,
May softly shine against the wall,
Below the sloping thatch, brown-grey,
Or over pale-green grass, may fall,.

Or where, in fields that heat burns dry,

May show the thistle's purple studs,

Or beds of dandelions ply

Their stems with yellow fringed buds.

There shades may show the time of day, And flowers, how summer wanes away.

F

NOT FAR TO GO

As upland fields were sunburnt brown,

And heat-dried brooks were running small, And sheep were gather'd, panting all,

Below the hawthorn on the down;

The while my mare, with dipping head,
Pull'd on my cart, above the bridge ;
I saw come on, beside the ridge,
A maiden, white in skin and thread,
And walking, with an elbow load,
The way I drove, along my road.

As there, with comely steps, up hill
She rose by elm-trees, all in ranks,
From shade to shade, by flow'ry banks,
Where flew the bird with whistling bill,

I kindly said, 'Now won't you ride,
This burning weather, up the knap?
I have a seat that fits the trap,—
And now is swung from side to side.'
'O no,' she cried, 'I thank you, no.
I've little farther now to go.'

Then, up the timber'd slope, I found

The prettiest house, a good day's ride

Would bring you by, with porch and side, By rose and jessamine well bound,

And near at hand, a spring and pool,

With lawn well sunn'd and bower cool :

And while the wicket fell behind

Her steps, I thought, if I would find

A wife, I need not blush to show,

I've little farther now to go.

CHANGES

AND oh! what changes we all know,
Long years can bring in one small place,
In names and shapes, from face to face,
As souls will come and souls will go :

And here, where hills have all stood fast,
While babes have come and men have pass'd,

The wind-stream softly seems to sigh, 'Man's lifetime glides away as I.'

The child may open here his eyes,
Long miles away to live a man,
The mother here may end her span
Of life, where no dear daughter lies.