His art he placed the ring that's there, Still by fancy's eye descried, In token of a marriage rare : For him on earth, his art's despair, 3. Little girl with the poor coarse hand I have my lesson, understand The worth of flesh and blood at last! Nothing but beauty in a Hand? Because he could not change the hie, I hear him laugh my woes to scorn- So sayest thou? So said not I, And years instead of hours employed, Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath Lines and hue of the outer sheath, If haply I might reproduce One motive of the mechanism, Flesh and bone and nerve that make The poorest coarsest human hand An object worthy to be scanned A whole life long for their sole sake. 50 60 70 Shall earth and the cramped moment-space Now the parts and then the whole ! 'I love, This peasant hand that spins the wool IX. ON DECK. I. THERE is nothing to remember in me, 2. Conceded! In turn, concede to me, Such things have been as a mutual flame. 3. For then, then, what would it matter to me That I was the harsh, ill-favored one? St. 1. Nothing I did that you care to see: refers to her art-work. 80 heart and brain, As I have all you in my You, whose least word brought gloom or glee, Who never lifted the hand in vain Will hold mine yet, from over the sea! 5. Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow, 6. Well, you may, you must, set down to me A passion to stand as your thoughts approve, 7. But did one touch of such love for me Round me and round while life endures, · Could I fancy "As I feel, thus feels He;" St. 3. Here it is indicated that she had not the personal charms which were needed to maintain her husband's interest. A pretty face was more to him than a deep loving soul. St. 6. vv. 3-5 express the entire devotion and submissiveness of her love. 8. Why, fade you might to a thing like me, And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree, You might turn myself! - should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James Lee? A TALE. EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC." I. WHAT a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time -Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. 2. Anyhow there's no forgetting That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. 3. Well, he had to sing, nor merely 4. There stood he, while deep attention To detect the slightest sound 5. None the less he sang out boldly, Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize !" 6. When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,—who had guessed Such ill luck in store?-it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. St. 7. "Cicada," do you say? Pooh! that's bringing the mysterious little thing down to the plane of entomology. |