The measure and translation of olden times.

In the rough epic of their life, their toil, their creeds,
Their psalms, their prayers, what stirring tales
Of days that were their past had they to tell
Their children to keep the new faith burning?
Tales of grandsires in the fatherland
Whose faith was seven times tried in fiery furnaces,--
Of Rowland Taylor who kissed the stake,
And stood with hands folded and eyes steadfastly turned
To the sky, and smiled upon the flames;
Of Latimer, and of Cranmer who for cowardice heroically atoned--
Who thrust his right hand into the fire
Because it had broken plight with his heart
And written against the voice of his conviction.
With such memories they exalted and cherished
The heroism of their tried souls,
And ours are wrung with doubt and self-distrust!

I am kneeling on the odorous earth;
The sweet, shy feet of Spring come tripping o’er the land,
Winter is fled to the hills, leaving snowy wreaths
On apple-tree, meadow, and marsh.
The walls are astir; little waves of blue
Run through my fingers murmuring:
“We follow the winds and the snow!”
Their heart is a cup of gold.
Soft whispers of showers and flowers
Are mingled in the spring song of the walls.
Hark to the songs that go singing like the wind