When comes the reaper with his scythe, Lower the coffin and slip the cord: When logs about the house are stack'd, And next year's hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are crack'd, And faggots blaze and spit; Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and doth not speak : But he puts his arm round the maid that's warm, And she tingles in the cheek. Death! Death! Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. MOTHER-SONG WHITE little hands! Pink little feet! Dimpled all over, Sweet, sweet, sweet! The unknown? the unseen? Cling to me closer, Closer and closer, Hath banish'd the grosser. Little fingers that feel For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries, Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, AGATHA SHE wanders in the April woods, She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: As o'er her senses warmly steal Among the summer woodlands wide Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown, The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing tone And yields her pure unquestioning soul And still she haunts those woodland ways, Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widow'd on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow, To hearth where love hath ceas'd to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fix'd for woe or tear ; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year. THE HAYMAKERS' SONG That lays it in and mows it, Now here's to him that stacks it, That thrashes and that tacks it, That cuts it out for eating, When March-dropp'd lambs are bleating, And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting, Drink, lads, drink! My days are full of pleasant memories Whom I have known! How tenderly their eyes Flash thro' the days too fleet! Which long ago went by with sun and rain, Flowers, or the winter snow; And still thro' memory's palace-halls are fain In rustling robes to go ! Or wed, or widow'd, or with milkless breasts, Around those women stand, Like mists that linger on the mountain crests Rear'd in a phantom land; And love is in their mien and in their look, And from their lips a stream Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook, And softer than a dream : And, one by one, holding my hands, they say And each head will a little turn away, Because they think such meagre joy we had; For love was little bold, And youth had store, and chances to be glad, And squander'd so his gold. Blue eyes, and gray, and blacker than the sloe, And dusk and golden hair, And lips that broke in kisses long ago, And wood and hill, and morning and dayfall, And every place and hour! And each on each a white unclouded brow Still as a sister bends, As they would say, "love makes us kindred now, Who sometime were his friends." BY THE SALPÉTRIÈRE I SAW a poor old woman on the bench Gave hint of bitter days to come ere long. Means light of heart, I could not but demand "Why, now, so near to weeping, citizen ?” She look'd up at me with vague surprise, And said, "You see I'm old; I'm very old: I'm eighty years and nine; and people say This winter will be hard. And we have here, We crave, Who've striven ninety years, and come to this, And we would have the priest to say a prayer To the good God for us, within the church, Before we go the way that go we must. And sou by sou we save :-a coffin costs, You hear, Sir? - sixteen francs; and if we go To church en route, 't is six francs for the priest. There's some of us have sav'd it all, and smile, With the receipt sew'd up, lest they should lose This passport to the grave of honest folk. And back they take the coffin for the next. The sparrows gather'd from the Squares, Upon the branches green; The pigeons flock'd from Palace-Yard, And children down St. Martin's Lane, Came trooping, many a thousand strong, They hugg'd each other round the neck And titter'd for delight, To see the yellow daffodils, And see the daisies white; And sandwich-men stood still aghast, Theodore Watts ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN (ON SEEING A STORM-PETREL IN A CAGE ON A COTTAGE WALL AND RELEASING IT) GAZE not at me, my poor unhappy bird; That sorrow is more than human in thine eye; Too deep already is my spirit stirr'd To see thee here, child of the sea and sky, Coop'd in a cage with food thou canst not eat, Thy "snow-flake" soil'd, and soil'd those conquering feet That walk'd the billows, while thy "sweetsweet-sweet" Proclaim'd the tempest nigh. Bird whom I welcom'd while the sailors curs'd, Friend whom I bless'd wherever keels may roam, THE SONNET'S VOICE (A METRICAL LESSON BY THe seashore) YON silvery billows breaking on the beach Fall back in foam beneath the star-shine clear, The while my rhymes are murmuring in your ear A restless lore like that the billows teach; For on these sonnet-waves my soul would reach From its own depths, and rest within you, dear, As, through the billowy voices yearning here, Great nature strives to find a human speech. A sonnet is a wave of melody: From heaving waters of the impassion'd soul A billow of tidal music one and whole |