He swims at large, Ah me! he will not come ! looks shyly on, -is dumb. Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble, But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble, Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble, Slips smartly in, and gets the proffered crumb. He should have all my crumbs-if he'd but ask ; He's far too proud to be a dangling slave; And then- he's modest ! So... he will not come! 'TIS THE SUNDIAL. an old dial, dark with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb; And round about its gray, time-eaten brow I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe ? Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head; And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; tune, Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; An inner beauty shining from her face. She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book, Herrick or Herbert, watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook. Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half-accounted true, Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound, And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; There came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head; Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; So kindly fronted that you marvel how The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note; held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; The shade crept forward through the dying glow; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show |