WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

The fair world is the witness of a crime Repeated every hour. For life and breath Are sweet to all who live ; and bitterly The voices of these robbers of the heath Sound in each ear and chill the passer-by. What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time ? What have we done to Death that we must die ?

��HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON

A Garden Song

TLJ ERE in this sequester'd close

• * Bloom the hyacinth and rose,

Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock ; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place ; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus, More had not Alcinoiis !

Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival ; AH is quiet else afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

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