L. A. G. STRONG (WADHAM)

UNNATURAL foliage pales the trees, Frost in compassion of their death Has kissed them, and his icy breath Proclaims and silvers their election. Death, wert thou beautiful as these, We scarce would pray for resurrection.

PROUD Eastern Queene, Borne forth in splendour to thy buriall. What need of gems To deck thee? Bear the Tyrian gauds aside. Thy own dead loveliness outshines the pride Of diadems.

O splendid hearte, Scorned and afflicted, still thou needest not Comfort of me. What matter though the body be uncouthe Wherein thou art? Fear not. He seeth truth Who gave it thee.

TWO days with puckered face of pain The accidental baby cried, And on the morning of the third Unclenched her tiny hands, and died.

BILL Jupp lies ’ere, aged sixty year: From Tavistock ’e came. Single ’e bided, and ’e wished ’Is father’d done the same.

GNARLY and bent and deaf ’s a post Pore ol’ Ezekiel Purvis Goeth creepin’ slowly up the ’ill To the Commoonion Survis. Tap-tappy-tappy up the haisle Goeth stick and brassy ferule; And Parson ’ath to stoopy down And ’olley in ees yerole.

I DREAD the parrots of the summer sun, The harsh and blazing screams of July noon, A riot of jays and peacocks and macaws. There is some presage of big ardours due Even in the pale flamingoes of the dawn; While golden pheasants and hoopoes of the West Burn fierce and proudly still, when he has set. Better the winter wagtails of pied skies, Cold ospreys of the north, cormorants of squall, Brown wrens of rain, white silent owls of snow, And bitterns of great clouds that in October Sweep from the west at evening. Lovelier still The night’s black swans, the daws of starless night (Daw-like to hide what’s shiny), plovers and gulls Of winds that cry on autumn afternoons.... These every one I love: but above these Rarest of all my birds, I dearly love The blue and silver herons of the moon.

CHRISTOPHER MARLYE damned his God In many a blasphemous mighty line, —Being given to words and wenches and wine. He wrote his Faustus, and laughed to see How everyone feared his devils but he. Christopher Marlye passed the gate, Eager to stalk on the floor of Heaven, Outface his God, and affront the Seven: But Peter genially let him in, Making no mention of all his sin. And he got no credit for all he had done, Though he grabbed a hold on the coat of God, And bellowed his infamies one by one, Blasphemy, lechery, thought, and deed ... But nobody paid him the slightest heed. And the devils and torments he thought to brave He left behind, on this side of the grave. Heigh-ho! for Christopher Marlye.