IV.— LOST TREASURE.
The autumn day steals, pallid as a ghost,
Along these fields and man-forsaken ways;
And o'er the hedgerows' bramble-knotted maze
The whitening locks of Old Man's Beard are tost.
Here, shrunk by centuries of fire and frost,
A crab tree stands where—lingering gossip says—
In ocean-moated England's golden days,
Great treasure, in a frolic, once was lost.
Here—fresh from fumes of some Falstaffian bout,
When famous champions, fired by many a bet,
Had drained huge bumpers while the stars would set-
Beneath its reeling branches by the way.
Till twice twelve hours of April bloom were out—
Locked in oblivion—Shakespeare lost a day.
V.— THE AVON.
What are the Willows whispering in a row.
Nodding their old heads o'er the river's edge?
What does the West wind whisper to the sedge
And to the shame-faced purples drooping low?
Why sobs the water, in its broken flow
Lapping against the grey weir's ruined ledge?
And, in the thorny shelter of the hedge,
What birds unloads his little heart of woe?
