Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.

The Shaded Pool

Norman Gale (1862–1942)

A LAUGHING knot of village maids

Goes gaily tripping to the brook,

For water-nymphs they mean to be,

And seek some still, secluded nook.

Here Laura goes, my own delight,

And Colin’s love, the madcap Jane,

And half a score of goddesses

Trip over daisies in the plain:

Already now they loose their hair

And peep from out the tangled gold,

Or speed the flying foot to reach

The brook that ’s only summer-cold;

The lovely locks stream out behind

The shepherdesses on the wing,

And Laura’s is the wealth I love,

And Laura’s is the gold I sing.

A-row upon the bank they pant,

And all unlace the country shoe;

Their fingers tug the garter-knots

To loose the hose of varied hue.

The flashing knee at last appears,

The lower curves of youth and grace,

Whereat the maidens’ eyes do scan

The mazy thickets of the place.

But who ’s to see besides the thrush

Upon the wild crab-apple tree?

Within his branchy haunt he sits—

A very Peeping Tom is he!

Now music bubbles in his throat,

And now he pipes the scene in song—

The virgins slipping from their robes,

The cheated stockings lean and long,

The swift-descending petticoat,

The breasts that heave because they ran,

The rounded arms, the brilliant limbs,

The pretty necklaces of tan.

Did ever amorous god in Greece,

In search of some young mouth to kiss,

By any river chance upon

A sylvan scene as bright as this?

But though each maid is pure and fair,

For one alone my heart I bring,

And Laura’s is the shape I love,

And Laura’s is the snow I sing.

And now upon the brook’s green brink,

A milk-white bevy, lo, they stand,

Half shy, half frighten’d, reaching back

The beauty of a poising hand!

How musical their little screams

When ripples kiss their shrinking feet!

And then the brook embraces all

Till gold and white and water meet!

Within the streamlet’s soft cool arms

Delight and love and gracefulness

Sport till a horde of tiny waves

Swamps all the beds of floating cress:

And on his shining face are seen

Great yellow lilies drifting down

Beyond the ringing apple-tree,

Beyond the empty homespun gown.

Did ever Orpheus with his lute,

When making melody of old,

E’er find a stream in Attica

So ripely full of pink and gold?

At last they climb the sloping bank

And shake upon the thirsty soil

A treasury of diamond-drops

Not gain’d by aught of grimy toil.

Again the garters clasp the hose,

Again the polish’d knee is hid,

Again the breathless babble tells

What Colin said, what Colin did.

In grace upon the grass they lie

And spread their tresses to the sun,

And rival, musical as they,

The blackbird’s alto shake and run.

Did ever Love, on hunting bent,

Come idly humming through the hay,

And, to his sudden joyfulness,

Find fairer game at close of day?

Though every maid ’s a lily-rose,

And meet to sway a sceptred king,

Yet Laura’s is the face I love,

And Laura’s are the lips I sing.