GEORGE MEREDITH

God ! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never* darkened That had thee here obscure.

Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm'd the slender shaft :

Often down the pit spied the lean wolf's teeth Grin against his will, trapp'd by masterstrokes of craft ;

Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe ! Safe the tender lambs tugg'd the teats, and winter sped

Whirl'd before the crocus, the year's new gold. Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead Redden'd through his feathers for our dear fold. God ! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darkened That had thee here obscure.

Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above:

Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb'd air ! Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love

Ease because the creature was all too fair. Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good,

Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp'd mast. God ! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known, Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame.

Ere the string was tightened we heard the mellow tone, After he had taught how the sweet sounds came.

�� �