Rare, rare bloom of the sun enslaven,
Laughter-laden and gold-bedight,
How came you to a Northern haven,
To a sky the colour of anthracite?
To what fair land do your thoughts go homing,
Southern shore with cream waves combing,
Where the birds and bees are all day roaming
And nightingales sing to the stars all night?
Was it Persephone's guileless finger
Coaxed you first from Sicily's sward,
Where the herdsmen's steps were fain to linger
And the cattle splashed in the drowsy ford,
While the Satyrs danced with their Naiad neighbours
To a measure of shepherd-pipes and tabors,
And the Cyclops toiled at his endless labours
By the flaming forges of Etna's lord?
Or were you born by the staid Cephissus
Where the dull Boeotian days went by,
To mind men ever of fond Narcissus
Where Helicon climbed to the stormy sky;
Where the clouds still follow the tearful Hyads
By the homes of the oak-tree Hamadryads,
And the Thracian wind with its sough and sigh adds
Homage to graves where the heroes lie?
I love to think it; but could you tell us
We should find, I fear, that with all your class
You know as much of the land of Hellas
As I do, say, of the Khyber Pass.
For I doubt you are none of the old-time lilies
Beloved of Hector and fleet Achilles;
In the Channel Isles, or perhaps the Scillies,
You were grown in a hot-house under glass.
C. HILTON BROWN.
Feb. 14, 1912.