Volume 158 — SUSSEX GODS.

I have been told, and do not doubt, That Devon lanes are dim with trees, And shagged with fern, and loved of bees, And all with roses pranked about; I do believe that other-where The woods are green, the meadows fair. And woods, I know, have always been The haunt of fairies, good or grim; There the knight-errant hasted him; There Bottom found King Oberon's Queen; The Enchanted Castle always stood Deep in the shadow of a wood. But I know upland spirits too Who love the shadeless downs to climb; There, in the far-off fabled time, Men called them when the moon was new, And built them little huts of stone With briar and thistle over-grown. The trees are few and do not bend To make a whispering swaying arch; They are the elder and the larch, Who have the north-east wind for friend, And shield them from his bluff salute With elbow kinked and moss-girt root. There, when the clear Spring sunset dies Like a great pearl dissolved in wine, Forgotten stragglers half-divine Creep to their ancient sanctuaries Where salt-sweet thyme and sorrel-spire Feed on the dust of ancient fire. And when the light is almost dead, Low-swung and loose the brown clouds flow In an unhasting happy row Out seaward over Beachy Head, Where, far below, the faithful sea Mutters its wordless liturgy; Then Sussex gods of sky and sun, Gods never worshipped in a grove, Walk on the hills they used to love, Where the Long Man of Wilmington, Warden of their old frontier, stands And welcomes them with sceptred hands. D.M.S.