WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea's delight,

England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, There 's the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown, England

Out of heaven on your bugles blown !

��EDMUND GOSSE

Revelation

INTO the silver night ^ She brought with her pale hand The topaz lanthorn-hght, And darted splendour o'er the land ;

Around her in a band, Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying,

And flapping with their mad wings, fanned The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.

Behind the thorny pink

Close wall of blossom'd may, I gazed thro' one green chink And saw no more than thousands may,

Saw sweetness, tender and gay, Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,

Saw braided locks more dark than bay, And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.

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