« PreviousContinue »
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails,
up the ridgéd sea!
fly no more.
THE DESERTED HOUSE.
LIFE and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide :
All within is dark as night :
Close the door, the shutters close,
Or through the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Come away; no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
And shall fall again to ground.
Come away; for Life and Thought
But in a city glorious-
Would they could have stayed with us.
OR, THE LAKE.
O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake,
O me! my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull, The curate; he was fatter than his cure.
But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names,
And once I asked him of his early life,
• My love for Nature is as old as I;
Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull,
“ I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unreal.ways
Seem but the theme of writers, and, indeed,
“ Parson,” said I, “you pitch the pipe too low;
, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear other music; yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream ?" I asked him half-sardonically.
6 Give ? Give all thou art,” he answered, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; “I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin; my ears could hear Her lightest breaths; her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came; Her voice fled always through the summer land; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.”
Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did ? but something jarred; Whether he spoke too largely; that there seemed A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness; howsoe'er it was, Ho scarcely hit my humor, and I said :
“Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left ? But
you can talk; yours is a kindly vein;
I have, I think,-Heaven knows,-as much within;
So spoke I, knowing not the things that were.
But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had withered, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rent-roll Cupid of our rainy isles. 'Tis true we met; one hour I had, no more, She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, The close “ Your Letty, only yours;” and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beating heart The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel ; And out I stept, and up I crept; she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers ; Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she, She turned, we closed, we kissed, swore faith, I
breathed In some new planet; a silent cousin stole Upon us and departed. “Leave,” she cried, “ O leave me!” “Never, dearest, never; here