d I'll free it_, _if I can_,
_From every rotten bourgeois_
_And played-out gentleman_!"

IV.
"HAPPY VALLEY." {66}

There is a valley green that lies
'Mid hills, the summer's bower.
The many coloured butterflies
Flutter from flower to flower.

And round one lush green side of it,
In gardened homes are laid,
With grief and care compassionate,
The people of the dead.

There all the voicing summer day
They sing, the happy rills.
No noisy sound awakes away
The echo of the hills.

A GLIMPSE OF CHINA.

I.
IN A SAMPAN.
(_Min River_, _Fo Kien_.)

Up in the misty morning,
Up past the gardened hills,
With the rhythmic stroke of the rowers,
While the blue deep pales and thrills!

Past the rice-fields green low-lying,
Where the sea-gull's winging down
From the fleets of junks and sampans
And the ancient Chinese Town!

II.
IN A CHAIR.
(_Foo-chow_.)

From the bright and blinding sunshine,
From the whirling locust's song,
Into the dark and narrow fissures
Of the streets I am borne along.

Here and there dusky-beaming
A sun-shaft broadens and drops
On the brown bare crowd slow-passing
The crowd of the open shops.

We move on over the bridges
With their straight-hewn blocks of stone.
And their quaint grey animal figures,
And the booths the hucksters own.

Behind a linen awning
Sits an ancient wight half-dead,
And a little dear of a girl is
Examining--his head.

On a bended bamboo shouldered,
Bearing a block of stone,
Two worn-out coolies half-naked
Utter their grunting groan.

Children, almond-eyed beauties,
Impossibly mangy curs,
Take part in the motley stream of
Insouciant passengers.

This is the dream, the vision
That comes to me and greets--
_The vision of Retribution_
_In the labyrinthine streets_!

III.
"CASTE."

These Chinese toil and yet they do not starve,
And they obey, and yet they are not slaves.
It is the "free-born" fuddled Englishmen
That grovel rotting in their living graves.

These Chinese do not fawn with servile lips;
They lift up equal eyes that ask and scan.
Their degradation has escaped at least
That choicest curse of all--the gentleman!

IV.
OVER THE SAMOVAR. {69a}
(_Foo-chow_.)