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ONCE A WEEK.
[Sept. 12, 1863.
The distant sheep-bells with their fitful jingle,
The solemn cawing of the rooks above,
The wind-borne shouting of the sailors, mingle
With that sweet tale of constancy and love;
Until the white light settles on the distance.
And hedgerow shadows lengthen on the lea.
And so it is that idylls have existence,
And so, while hearts are young, ’twill ever be.
For bygone times are still by us reflected,
We are as near to Arcadie as they;
’Tis but the outward sign we have rejected,
The shepherd’s trappings that are put away.
And, in our hearts, for all time there abideth
The spirit that in old times clothed the downs,
The woods, and valleys where the river glideth,
With simple loves of shepherd-maids and clowns.
W. G.
