I gathered with a careless hand, There where the waters night and day Are languid in the idle bay, A little heap of golden sand; And, as I saw it, in my sight Awoke a vision brief and bright, A city in a pleasant land. I saw no mound of earth, but fair Turrets and domes and citadels, With murmuring of many bells; The spires were white in the blue air, And men by thousands went and came, Rapid and restless, and like flame Blown by their passions here and there. With careless hand I swept away The little mound before I knew; The visioned city vanished too, And fall'n beneath my fingers lay. Ah God! how many hast Thou seen, Cities that are not and have been, By silent hill and idle bay!

Gerald Gould.

5. TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN

Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? All things I'll give you, Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may, Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away? Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein— Only a moment, And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?

Ralph Hodgson.

6. A HUGUENOT

O, a gallant set were they, As they charged on us that day, A thousand riding like one! Their trumpets crying, And their white plumes flying, And their sabres flashing in the sun. O, a sorry lot were we, As we stood beside the sea, Each man for himself as he stood! We were scattered and lonely— A little force only Of the good men fighting for the good. But I never loved more On sea or on shore The ringing of my own true blade, Like lightning it quivered, And the hard helms shivered, As I sang, "None maketh me afraid!"

Mary E. Coleridge.

7. ON THE TOILET TABLE OF QUEEN MARIE-ANTOINETTE

This was her table, these her trim outspread Brushes and trays and porcelain cups for red; Here sate she, while her women tired and curled The most unhappy head in all the world.

J. B. B. Nichols.

8. UPON ECKINGTON BRIDGE, RIVER AVON

O pastoral heart of England! like a psalm Of green days telling with a quiet beat— O wave into the sunset flowing calm! O tired lark descending on the wheat! Lies it all peace beyond that western fold Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold Yon cloud with prophecies of linked ease— Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees, To drowse beside her implements of war? Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept Avon from Naseby Field to Severn Ham; And Evesham's dedicated stones have stepp'd Down to the dust with Montfort's oriflamme. Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower Abides; but yet these eloquent grooves remain, Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes. E'en so shall man turn back from violent hopes To Adam's cheer, and toil with spade again. Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap Like a repentant child at length he hies, Not in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries: But when in winter's grave, bereft of light, With still, small voice divinelier whispering —Lifting the green head of the aconite, Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot— She feels God's finger active at the root, Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring.

Arthur Quiller-Couch.

9. BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS

Sombre and rich, the skies; Great glooms, and starry plains. Gently the night wind sighs; Else a vast silence reigns. The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned. Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall: Only the night wind glides: No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. Gone, too, his Court; and yet, The stars his courtiers are: Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star. Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing. Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies? Although his whole heart yearn In passionate tragedy: Never was face so stern With sweet austerity. Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends. Brief life and hapless? Nay: Through death, life grew sublime. Speak after sentence? Yea: And to the end of time. Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom. Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy. King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face. Yet when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will.

Lionel Johnson.

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