POETRY.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 99, 24 September 1874, Page 3

POETRY.

SPRING SONG IN THE CITY. By Robert Buchanan. Who remains in London, In the streets with me, Now that spring is blowing Warm winds from the sea ; Now that trees grow green and tall, Now the sun shines mellow, And with moist primroses all English lanes are yellow ? Little barefoot maiden, Selling violets blue, Hast thou ever pictured Where the sweetlings grew ? Oh, the warm wild woodland ways, Deep in dewy grasses, Where the wind-blown shadow strays, Scented as it passes ! Pedlar breathing deeply, Toiling into town, With the dusty highway You are dusky brown — Has thou seen by daisied leas, And by rivers flowing. Lilac-ringlets which the breeze Loosens lightly blowing 1 Out of yonder waggon Pleasant hay-scents float He who drives it carries A daisy in his coat : Oh, the English meadows, fair Far beyond all praises ! Freckled orchids everywhere Mid the snow of daisies ! Now in busy silence Broods the nightingale, Choosing his love's dwelling In a dimpled dale ; Round the leafy bower they raise Rose-trees wild are springing ; Underneath, thro' the green haze, Bounds the brooklet singing. And his love is silent As a bird can be, For the red buds only Fill the red rose-tree,— Just as buds and blossoms blow, He'll begin his tune, When all is green and roses glow Underneath the moon. Nowhere in the valleys Will the wind be still, Everything is waving, Wagging at his will : Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean, With her hand prest on it! Lightly o'er the hedge so green Blows the ploughboy's bonnet! Oh to be a-roaming In an English dell ! Every nook is wealthy, All the world looks well, Tinted soft the heavens glow, Over earth and ocean, Wafers How, breezes blow, All is light and motion !