II.

Oh, never by outward looke or signe,
   My true love shall ye knowe;
There be many as fayre, and many as fyne,
   And many as brighte to showe. 
But if ye coude looke with angel’s eyes,
   Which into the soule can see,
She then would be seene as the matchless Queene
   Of Love and of Puritie.

LULLABY.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! 
   Evening is coming, and night is nigh;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
   All will be sleeping by and by. 
      Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! 
   Darkness is creeping along the sky;
Stars at the casement glimmer and peep,
   Slowly the moon comes sailing by. 
      Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! 
   Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky;
Under the lattice the little birds cheep,
   All will be waking by and by. 
      Sleep, little baby, sleep.

ISLE OF WIGHT—­SPRING, 1891.

I know not what the cause may be,
   Or whether there be one or many;
But this year’s Spring has seemed to me
   More exquisite than any.

What happy days we spent together
   In that fair Isle of primrose flowers! 
How brilliant was the April weather! 
   What glorious sunshine and what showers!

I think the leaves peeped out and in
   At every change from cold to heat;
The grass threw off a livelier sheen
   From dewdrops sparkling at our feet.

What wealth of early bloom was there—­
   The wind flow’r and the primrose pale,
On bank or copse, and orchis rare,
   And cowslip covering Wroxhall dale.

And, oh, the splendour of the sea,—­
   The blue belt glimmering soft and far,
Through many a tumbled rock and tree
   Strewn ’neath the overhanging scar!

’Tis twenty years and more, since here,
   As man and wife we sought this Isle,
Dear to us both, O wife most dear,
   And we can greet it with a smile.

Not now alone we come once more,
   But bringing young ones of our brood—­
One boy (Salopian), and four
   Girls, blooming into maidenhood.

And I had late begun to fret
   And sicken at the sordid town—­
The crime, the guilt, and, loathlier yet,
   The helpless, hopeless sinking down;

The want, the misery, the woe,
   The stubborn heart which will not turn;
The tears which will or will not flow;
   The shame which does or does not burn.

And Winter’s frosts had proved unkind,
   With darkest gloom and deadliest cold;
A time which will be brought to mind,
   And talked of, when our boys are old.

And thus the contrast seemed to wake
   New vigour in the heart and brain;
Sea, land, and sky conspired to make
   The jaded spirit young again;