Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

With both their eyes (they stared with one before).
The wonder now was two-fold; and it seemed
Strange that a thing so torn and old should still
Be worn by one who might-

-but let that pass !
I had my reasons, which might be revealed
But for some counter-reasons, far more strong,
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.
Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown,
And frosty winter came,—and went and came,
And still through all the seasons of two years,
In park and city, yea, at parties—balls—
The hat was worn and borne. Then folks grew
With curiosity, and whispers rose,

wild

And questions passed about-how one so trim
In coats, boots, ties, gloves, trousers, could insconce
His caput in a covering so vile.

A change came o'er the nature of my hat.
Grease-spots appeared-but still in silence, on
I wore it—and then family and friends
Glared madly at each other. There was one
Who said-but hold—no matter what was said;
A time may come when I- -away, away-
Not till the season's ripe can I reveal

Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds-
Till then the world shall not pluck out the heart
Of this my mystery. When I will, I will!
The hat was now greasy, and old, and torn,
But torn, old, greasy, still I wore it on.

A change came o'er the business of this hat.
Women, and men and children, scowled on me—
My company was shunned-I was alone!
None would associate with such a hat-
Friendship itself proved faithless for a hat.
She that I loved, within whose gentle breast
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death-
Love's fires went out-extinguished by a hat.
Of those who knew me best, some turned aside,

And scudded down dark lanes; one man did place
His finger on his nose's side, and jeered;
Others in horrid mockery laughed outright;
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct's dubious ray,
Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat,
Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked.
Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lover, dogs,
One thought pervaded all-it was my hat.

A change, it was the last, came o'er this hat,
For lo! at length the circling months went round:
The period was accomplished-and one day
This tattered, brown, old greasy coverture
(Time had endeared its vileness) was transferred
To the possession of a wandering son

Of Israel's fated race-and friends once more
Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze :
Once more I went my way, along, along,

And plucked no wondering gaze; the hand of scorn
With its annoying finger, men, and dogs

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless

And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love!
Love smiled on me again, when I assumed
A bran new chapeau of the Melton build;
And then the laugh was mine, for then out came
The secret of this strangeness-'twas a bet,-
A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten,
Three years I would not wear it—and I did!

THE OLD MAN IN THE WOOD.

ANONYMOUS.

THERE was an old man who liv'd in the wood,
As you shall plainly see,

He thought he could do more work in one day
Than his wife could do in three.

"With all my heart," the old woman said,

"If you will allow,

You shall stay at home to-day,

And I'll go follow the plough.

"And you must milk the tiny cow,
Lest she should go dry;
And you must feed the little pigs
That are within the sty.

66 And you must watch the speckled hen,
Lest she should go astray;
Not forgetting the spool of yarn
That I spin every day."

The old woman took her stick in her hand,
And went to follow the plough;

The old man put the pail on his head,
And went to milk the cow.

But Tiny she winc'd, and Tiny she flinch'd,
And Tiny she toss'd her nose,

And Tiny gave him a kick on the shin,
Till the blood ran down to his toes.

And a "ho, Tiny !" and a "lo, Tiny!"
And a "pretty little cow stand still;"
And "if ever I milk you again,” he said,
"It shall be against my will."

And then he went to feed the pigs
That were within the sty;

He knocked his nose against the shed,
And made the blood to fly.

And then he watched the speckled hen,
Lest she should go astray;

But he quite forgot the spool of yarn,
That his wife spun every day.

And when the old woman came home at night,
He said he could plainly see,

That his wife could do more work in a day
Than he could do in three.

And then he said how well she plough'd,
And made the furrows even-

Said his wife could do more work in a day
Than he could do in seven.

THE SANDS OF DEE.

REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY.

Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee."

The western wind was wild and dark with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—
A tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?"

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair

Among the stakes of Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea.

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,

Across the sands of Dee.

(By permission of Messrs. Macmillan.)

171

THE ALMA.

THE RIGHT REV. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D.,
ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN.

THOUGH till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters be,

Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to

the sea:

Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known

Now thou art a voice for ever, to the world's four corners blown.

In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deathless name,

And a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame. Many a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower and shrine,

Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine,

Cannot shed the light thou sheddest around many a living head,

Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead.

Yea, nor all unscathed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning, say

When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away

"He has pass'd from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died

By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side." Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those

Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds

repose,

Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old,

Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold;

« ForrigeFortsæt »