That apple of the briar-scent,
     Among our lost in Britain now,
     Was green of rind, and redolent
     Of sweetness as a milking cow. 
     The briar gives it back, well nigh
     The damsel with her teeth on it;
     Her twinkle between frank and shy,
     My thirst to bite where she had bit.

     Empedocles

     I

     He leaped.  With none to hinder,
     Of Aetna’s fiery scoriae
     In the next vomit-shower, made he
     A more peculiar cinder. 
     And this great Doctor, can it be,
     He left no saner recipe
     For men at issue with despair? 
     Admiring, even his poet owns,
     While noting his fine lyric tones,
     The last of him was heels in air!

     II

     Comes Reverence, her features
     Amazed to see high Wisdom hear,
     With glimmer of a faunish leer,
     One mock her pride of creatures. 
     Shall such sad incident degrade
     A stature casting sunniest shade? 
     O Reverence! let Reason swim;
     Each life its critic deed reveals;
     And him reads Reason at his heels,
     If heels in air the last of him!

     England before the storm

     I

     The day that is the night of days,
     With cannon-fire for sun ablaze
     We spy from any billow’s lift;
     And England still this tidal drift! 
     Would she to sainted forethought vow
     A space before the thunders flood,
     That martyr of its hour might now
     Spare her the tears of blood.

     II

     Asleep upon her ancient deeds,
     She hugs the vision plethora breeds,
     And counts her manifold increase
     Of treasure in the fruits of peace. 
     What curse on earth’s improvident,
     When the dread trumpet shatters rest,
     Is wreaked, she knows, yet smiles content
     As cradle rocked from breast.

     III

     She, impious to the Lord of Hosts,
     The valour of her offspring boasts,
     Mindless that now on land and main
     His heeded prayer is active brain. 
     No more great heart may guard the home,
     Save eyed and armed and skilled to cleave
     Yon swallower wave with shroud of foam,
     We see not distant heave.

     IV

     They stand to be her sacrifice,
     The sons this mother flings like dice,
     To face the odds and brave the Fates;
     As in those days of starry dates,
     When cannon cannon’s counterblast
     Awakened, muzzle muzzle bowled,
     And high in swathe of smoke the mast
     Its fighting rag outrolled.

     1891.

     Tardy spring

     Now the North wind ceases,
     The warm South-west awakes;
     Swift fly the fleeces,
     Thick the blossom-flakes.