THE NEW LAUREATE. 
23 
rhyme which abound in Mr. Austin’s verses, but “ the stone-pine 
slopes, black against the blue,” is a graphic, if an obvious, touch. 
longer poem, “ The Fallen Elm,” contains some of those 
pictures of the seasons which Mr. Austin draws with much 
appreciation and accuracy, albeit a little too frequently. 
’Twas pleasant, when sap began to stir, 
And branch, spray, and bud to shoot. 
To hearken the newly-paired partridge whirr. 
And the croak of the pairing coot. 
» » • * * 
Now, when jackdaws starve and the blizzard bites. 
And the furrows are flecked with sleet. 
And the owl keeps snug in the thatch o’ nights. 
And the waggoner chafes his feet ; 
When the empty nest in the leafless hedge 
Sits sad where the sweet birds sang. 
And the mallard croaks in the frozen se<lge, 
And the wings of the wild geese twang ; 
When the lean hare nibbles the birch-tree bark. 
And the stoat grows lank and thin. 
And the cub of the vixen prowl the dark, 
And the gossips sit and spin. 
*«•«*« 
Spring, however, with its flowers and birds, is Mr. Austin’s 
favourite season. Here are a few verses from 
THE PASSING OF SPRING. 
Spring came out of the woodland chase. 
With her violet eyes and her primrose face. 
With an iris scarf for her sole apparel. 
And a voice as blithe as a blackbird’s carol. 
***** 
Then the windflower looked through the crumbling mould. 
And the celandine opened its eyes of gold. 
And the primrose sallied from chestnut shade, 
And carried the common and stormed the glade. 
In sheltered orchard and windy heath 
The dauntless daffodils slipped their sheath ; 
And glittering close in clump and cluster. 
Dared norland tempests to blow and bluster. 
* « * 
Then, tenderly ringing old Winter’s knell. 
The hyacinth swung its soundless bell ; 
And over and under and through and through 
The copses there shimmered a sea of blue. 
Like a sunny shadow of cloudlet fleeting. 
Spring skimmed the pastures where lambs were bleating ; 
Along with them gambolled by bole and mound. 
And raced and chased with them round and round. 
If Spring is Mr. Austin’s favourite season, the primrose — as 
perhaps would be expected of so staunch a Tory — is the flower 
of his choice. This, the first part of a poem entirely in its 
