130 



THE ENTOMOLOGIST S RECORD. 



wane before the demands of Nature in a more personal relation, and 

 even now lingeringly and witli reluctance, we lower down and extin- 

 guish our lamps and fold the sheet which has done such yeoman service. 

 Hiding the heaviest of our paraphernalia in the thick rank growth 

 around, we return to ourselves, home, supper and bed. 



Who is he, pent-up in crowded city, that does not feel a chord 

 vibrate in sympathy with such recollections and long for the moment 

 when, in healthy and exhilarating sport, the lassitude of the winter 

 may be cast off and a store of health and pleasant reminiscences be 

 acquired for the future ; whilst in such recollections lies much of the 

 subtle charm that invariably retains the active sympathies of every 

 individual, who may have been fortunate enough to come within the 

 magic spell of attraction of our favourite hobby. 



PRING. 



^HITE and blue in the sky this 

 morn: 



Shadows creeping along the hill : 

 Spring's young life in the hud new- 

 born : 

 Tinkle of music in river and rill. 



Cast off sorrow and cares that kill : 



Hie thee forth and be glad to-day. 

 What ai-e thy years to thee ? Youth 

 lives still 

 In many a heart when flowers the 

 May. 



Youth in the heart, though the hair 

 be grey, 

 Calls us forth to be boys again. 

 Calls us forth to see Nature play 

 With her old, old playthings — Joy 

 and Pain. 



Joy to the plant, as it drinks the 

 rain : 



Pain to the dripping beggar's child : 

 Joy to the child, as it links the chain : 



Pain to the daisy for flowers defiled. 



Joy to the hawk in the woodland 

 wild : 

 Pain to the dove as the claws sink 

 deep. 

 Over her playthings hath Nature 

 smiled 

 Since the world and its wonders 

 awoke from sleep. 



Lips may smile, when the eyes would 

 weep: 

 Eyes may smile though the heart 

 be sore. 

 Nature, must thou thy secret keep ? 

 Lovest thou sorrow or joy the 

 m^re ? 



Let me enter thy open door : 



Let me dream on thy bounteous 

 breast : 

 Lay me down on thy flower-strewn 

 floor : 

 In thy presence is only rest. 



Rest to the hawk in its thorn-built 



nest: 



Rest in death to the dove that died : 



Rest to the day in the twilight blest : 



Rest to the sands when ebbs the 



tide. 



Must then May and the spring's 

 young pride 

 Sink like this through a minor key ? 

 Shall a man weep as he weds his 

 bride ? 

 Shall a boy's young thoughts as an 

 old man's be ? 



Fie on thee, Nature ; river and lea, 

 Sparkle of waters and whisper of 

 leaves 

 Weave no riddles 'twixt thee and me. 

 Keep thy pain for the heart that 

 grieves. 



Time in Autumn to bind the sheaves 

 Reaped from thy deeper wisdom's 

 store. 



Chatter of swallows beneath the eaves 

 Bids us sorrow in spring no more. 



Up then! Out! to the shell-decked 

 shore, 

 To the still green woods, to the 

 wind-swept heath. 

 The storms in winter may one day 

 roar, 

 But better in May is Life than 

 Death. 



G. M. A, Hewktt. 



