GEORGE MEREDITH

Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch'd in ranks :

Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray : Scarce the stony lizard sucked hollows in his flanks :

Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay. Sudden bow'd the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard,

Lengthen'd ran the grasses, the sky grew slate : Then amid a swift flight of wing'd seed white as curd, Clear of limb a Youth smote the master's gate. God ! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Water, first of singers, o ? er rocky mount and mead,

First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,

Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,

Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool

Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. God I of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields :

Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high : Big of heart we laboured at storing mighty yields,

Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry ! Hand-like rush'd the vintage; we strung the bellied skins

Plump, and at the sealing the Youth's voice rose: Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins ;

Gentle beasties through push'd a cold long nose.

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