THE TRUANT’S HOLIDAY

The Database of Ornament

    COME, let us forth, Sibylla !  The brave day,
        See, ’s all a-quiver with its gold and blue !
    Come, let us fly these paltry streets, and pay
        Our matin worship at some woodland shrine,
        Where yet the pearl’s on rose and eglantine
                          Not vainly there to sue
    From Nature’s absolution and grave peace
    Of town-bred weariness an hour or so’s release !

    Oh !  what enchantment lures us !  The glad fields,
        The dappled woodland, the chaste, whispering stream ;
    Yea, every marvel which rare Nature yields
        Of colour, or perfume, or entangled sound,
        To those who awefully approach her ground ;—
                          Dear, how each joy doth seem
    This hour conspired t’ entrance us in some spell
    Of fairyland’s delight, no mortal song may tell !

    What are these days we spend in curious toil,
        In hectic pleasure, and misname them life ?
    Ah !  what last gain shall London’s heart assoil
        For skies beclouded, Nature’s fragrant breath
        Made poisonous for us ; whilst, more grim than Death,
                          Amid the lonely strife,
    Goading us on from fatal hour to hour
    The brooding eyes of Care on her cowed victims lower ?

    Come, let us forth !  why heed pale Duty’s frown,
        If from th’ accustomed task our truant feet
    Turn wantonly, stale prisoners of the Town ?
        Come, come, let’s haste, ere yet a jealous fate

164                                  THE SAVOY

        

On steps that falter shall cry out “Too late !”
                        Nay, do not linger, Sweet !
    Joy calls a-flying : whoso fears t’ obey her,
    May grieve the live-long day in vain attempt to stay her !

                                                                                                SELWYN IMAGE.