class="poem">More is he fitted for the fountained sward
    Than for my herbary of butterflies;
No! I proclaim the lovelier throstle, Lord,
    The only one my simples recognise.

PATELEY BRIDGE, NIDDERDALE.

RUSHES

Rushes by the river
    Rear their heads of brown;
In the wind they quiver
    With a warning frown.
"Do you want them, Fairest?
    At thy feet they lie;
They were guarding, Rarest,—
    Sentinels!—They die."

Wild things are not willing
    To be captive ta'en:
"Cutting's almost killing,"
    Is their sad refrain.
"Rushes in their beauty
    Greenly-proud should stand:
Guarding is their duty—
    River from the land."

DARLEY, NIDDERDALE.

SATAN* AND I

To-day there is no one as happy as I,
Who am free of the hills, of the dales, of the sky,
As I ride o'er the moors while the lapwings cry.

I ride thro' the whin, watch the rabbits run,
Then slowly I turn to bask in the sun—
Then gallop away o'er the crest, like fun.

And Satan, you fiend, with your knowing ways
And tricks, that you dream of for days and days,
And mem'ries of maddening hours of the chase;

Do you feel the liberty of the wind,
That wakes the fern-land with kisses kind,
And seeks with caresses our lips to find?

To-day, for us both to be out is joy,
Tho' I am a girl with the soul of a boy,
And you are a horse, whom the spurs annoy.

To just be alive is a blessing rare,
In a world of beauty, endlessly fair;
For Satan and I, we have no care.

ALMSCLIFFE CRAG, WHARFEDALE.

* The name of my horse.

TO THE WIND

Strong, powerful Sweetheart-Wind,
    In tireless love-storm surging;
Great, bold, tempestuous Wind,
    Ever thy passion urging.

Hold me close in thine arms,
    O! strengthening ecstasy:
Wild, sweet, capturing arms—
    Love! I am yearning for thee.

Eyes, hair, bosom caress,
    My rowan-red lips now kiss;
Life-giving, wilful caress,
    O! marvellous moorland bliss.

Great, strong lover o' mine,
    I long for thy grand embrace;
Fierce, brave lover o' mine,
    I yield to thee my heart's grace.

GREENHOW HILL.

SAADI AND THE ROSE

O summer, with thy magic gift of flowers
    And soft bird voices, musicking the breeze,
    While yet thy roses stir the lazy air
My soul wings back thro' centuries, as hours.

It journeys till it 'lights within a court
    Where roses riot o'er veined-marble walls,
    Where peacocks strut along the broad white steps,
Or over broideries by fair hands wrought.

Within the palace, divanned, rests a king,
    Who watches listlessly the fountain's jet;
    And at his feet the poet Saadi stands
And hears intent th' captured bulbuls sing.

A slave with soul on freedom bent he stands,
    His eyes ablaze with restless ecstasy,
    While all around him breathes magnificence
Of power imperial over many lands.

Within his slender hand he holds a rose;
    Raising his head, he murmurs, "Mighty King!
    Do good unto thy servant while thou canst:
Thou may'st not always mitigate his woes.

"Like to this fleeting glory, carmined deep,
    The season of thy power is transient:
    Do good, whilst yet thou canst—'before thine eyes
Close in thy last, forgetting, silent sleep."

O blood-red rose! Thy petals bring to me
    The sunlit beauty of the Persian Court,
    The voice of Saadi, pleading with the king
His freedom granted on thy crimson plea.

A ROSE-GARDEN IN AIREDALE.

THE DIFFERENCE

When the factories all are silenced,
    And night brings her balm of sleep,
What are your last dear waking thoughts
    Ere you drift into slumber deep?

Why, Darling Mine! they are all of work,
    As your mind reviews the day:
Of the men you meet, of progress made,
    Of struggles to make your way.

But I—when I nestle among the sheets,
    Ere sleep my tired eyes woo,
Just count and repeat the loving words
    That have fall'n to-day from you!

AIREDALE.

SONG OF THE PRIMROSES

Listen to the infant breeze,
Clutching at the nippled trees,
    Where our yellow flowers are blowing,
    Where the rivulet is flowing.

Over all the blue-cupped sky
Silver brooding clouds swim by;
    See! The firstling swallow flying,
    Later, owlets will be crying.

Come and mark the painter sun
Daub the earth with golden fun;
    Hear the larches' fingers snapping,
    As if goblin hands were clapping.

Smell the rain-sweet, thymy earth,
Feel the wonder of rebirth!
    Far away a cuckoo's calling,
    Notes that sound like twin bells falling.

Then a clearer voice replies
To his echo ere it dies,
    And the blackbirds' voices mingle
    With th' Eistedfodd in the dingle.

Gold-green poplars slowly wave
O'er the Winter's mossy grave;
    Ferns are pointing curly fingers
    Where the dead year's bracken lingers.

We have seen a hedgehog hide
Prickle-less to greet his bride;
    Watched the baby otter shiver
    Ere he plunged into the river.

We are critics of the bees,
Watch how they despoil and seize
    From each cowslip saffron bounty;
    Uncaught robbers of the county!

All the keenings of the bat,
Whimperings of the water-rat;
    All the hopes of sister flowers
    Come to us by gossip showers.

Tortoise-shelled butterflies,
On their dew-pearl'd wingful sighs,
    Bear the news of elfin squabbles;
    "Wounded Oberon still hobbles."

We are darlings of the Spring,
All her secrets she doth bring,
    Runes of magic she discloses
    To her confidant-Primroses.

ENVOI

We shall feel her joy-winged sigh,
When she hears the Summer's cry:
    We shall droop and die of grieving,
    When our lovely Spring is leaving.

LITTONDALE.

LILIES

When I am old, so very old
    That all my own have passed away,
And I await Life's evening-gold,
    A little figure, lone and grey;