that an answer will be found to the question so often So long as Duddon 'twixt his cloud-girt walls So long as linnets chant low madrigals Near that brown nook the labourer whistling tills, So long, last poet of the great old race, Shall thy broad song through England's bosom roll, And be to later England as a soul. Glory to Him who made thee, and increase To them that hear thy word, of love and peace!' The Editor begs to thank once more the owners of the copyright of the sonnets published during recent years, for kindly allowing him to include them in his selection. 47, Connaught Street, HYDE PARK, W. |