Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . that those who sleep beneath,And those who play where churchyard grasses wave,Must almost breathe alike the limes sweet breath,And hear the daws clamour round tower and nave. The city churchyard is a ghastly place,High heaped in festering mould, with nettles rankThat clutch and choke in venomous embraceThe tombstones falln awry, and greening dank;Girt by mean houses grudging its foul space,And walls that bulge from its oerladen flank. Far other is the village vale of rest, With its green leaves, and mounds, and tomb-stones grey,Nibbled by grazing
Birket Foster's pictures of English landscape . that those who sleep beneath,And those who play where churchyard grasses wave,Must almost breathe alike the limes sweet breath,And hear the daws clamour round tower and nave. The city churchyard is a ghastly place,High heaped in festering mould, with nettles rankThat clutch and choke in venomous embraceThe tombstones falln awry, and greening dank;Girt by mean houses grudging its foul space,And walls that bulge from its oerladen flank. Far other is the village vale of rest, With its green leaves, and mounds, and tomb-stones grey,Nibbled by grazing sheep, or lightly prestBy feet of happy schoolboys in their play ;The Sunday place for youth to greet and jest,And age to bask and muse on lifes decay. Such should Gods-acre be. From the lych-gate I hear the bees about their fragrant toil Among the limes : round the dim dial-plate Of the grey tower the daws keep up their coil: From the near yew a thrush pipes to his mate— Nought but sweet sights, scents, sounds, and rest from lifes •27 XXVIII. THE FERRY-BOAT. {Night Thoughts in an Australian Stock-mans Hut.) A biter ran between us—my early love and me— And well I loved the old ferry-punt that gave us passage free ; How eagerly I watched it from the far bank labouring oer, Eor the ferryman was old and stiff, and strong the current bore: But when I leaped aboard the punt the passage was not long, With a good ash-pole in a lovers hand—a lover young and strong ; Still I see her by the river, beside the landing-place, With the arbeles all a shiver, and their shade upon her face. But now there lies between us—my early love and me— Six feet of churchyard mould, and four thousand miles of sea : I am a grizzled stock-man, here on the Murray plains, And the grave of her I love is green with Englands soft spring rains. Sometimes upon the Murrays side, under the blue gums shade, I think I see the old ferry-punt, with her nose in the rushes laid, But when I look abo
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