AN OUTDOOR KINDERGARTEN — 383 
Within my blood the two commingled stand, 
Yielding this heart, still true to its own land, 
A mingled heritage of love and hate. 
The peevish pens of London cannot prate 
So coarsely, but I feel the eternal band 
That binds me, England, to thy low-hung shore, 
Thy dainty turf, smooth stream, and gentle 
hill, 
So alien from our spaces vast and wild. 
Were England dying, at her cannon’s roar, 
I think my grandsire’s sword would stir and 
thrill, ; 
‘Though when this land lay bleeding, England 
smiled. 
AN OUTDOOR KINDERGARTEN 
O mists that loiter, vague and wild, 
Along the enchanted stream, 
Come lend your lesson to my child, 
And teach her how to dream. 
O wood-thrush, murmuring tender lays 
From pine-tree depths above, 
Make her thy pupil all her days, 
And teach her how to love. 
Thou oriole, in thy blithesome chant 
A fearless counsel give ; 
