Lily-like, white as snow, She was a woman, so Coffin-board, heavy stone I vex my heart alone, Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it. OSCAR WILDE. 52. NIGHT AND SLEEP. How strange at night to wake Till sight and hearing ache For objects that may keep The awful inner sense Unroused, lest it should mark The life that haunts the emptiness And horror of the dark! How strange at night the bay The old and crumbling tower, Take tongue and speak the hour! Albeit the love-sick brain From life's nocturnal swoon: Beasts ravenous and sly, The nightingale is gay, For she can vanquish night; Notes that make darkness bright; Men charge on her the dolefulness, COVENTRY PATMORE. 53. THE YEAR. The crocus, while the days are dark, Unfolds its saffron sheen; At April's touch, the crudest bark Then sleep the seasons, full of might; And rounds the peach, and in the night The Winter falls; the frozen rut Is bound with silver bars; The snow-drift heaps against the hut, And night is pierc'd with stars. COVENTRY PATMORE. 55. THE CRADLE. How steadfastly she'd worked at it! With all her would-be mother's wit How lovingly she'd hung on it! It sometimes seemed, she said, He came at last, the tiny guest, Her coffin was his bed. AUSTIN DOBSON. 55. THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL. 'Twas on the shores that round our coast That I found alone on a piece of stone His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said: "Oh, elderly man, it's little I know "At once a cook, and a captain bold, Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which And having got rid of a thumping quid, "Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell "And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll. "There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot The captain for our meal. "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, Then our appetite with the midshipmite "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, "Then only the cook and me was left, "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed "I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom; 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be, 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me For don't you see that you can't cook me, "So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too. "Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, "Twill soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.' "And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. |