Menella Bute Smedley Poems

Many voices in the woodlands
Strike on the delighted ear,—
Voices from the trees above us
Singing to the opening year;
...

An Angel came and cried to him by night,
‘God needs a Martyr from your little band;
Name me the purest soul, which, closely scanned,
...

There is darkness in the chamber,
There is silence by the hearth,
For pale, and cold, and dying,
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I met a woman, weeping by the sea,
Not patiently, as women sit and weep,
But running, white with passion, wild with fear,
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We are building little homes on the sands,
We are making little rooms very gay,
We are busy with our hearts and our hands,
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“Ah, Fanuel, my noble horse, and art thou, art thou slain?
Wilt thou never bear me to the chase or the battle-field again?
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The mountain church of Frauenburg
Hath many a narrow bed,
Where the oaken cross points upward,
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The children crown'd themselves with roses,
And all the roses died!
Pale on the soft brown locks they lay,
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He lies on the grass, looking up to the sky;
Blue butterflies pass like a breath or a sigh,
The shy little hare runs confidingly near,
...

Earl Strongbow lies in Dublin towers,
Begirt by a mighty host;
At the horn's wild sound they have gather'd around
From forest, hill, and coast.
...