Puslapio vaizdai



She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, I knew (such subtle brains have men !) As she sits at her lattice and shells her That she was uttering what she should n't; peas.

And thought that I would chide, and

then The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;

I thought I would n't. (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her away she skips Few could bave gaz'd upon that face, Over tables and chairs with apparent Those pouting coral lips, and chided :

A Rhadamanthus, in my place,

Had done as I did. The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;

For wrath with which our bosoms glow (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Is chain'd there oft by Beauty's spell ; And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, And, more than that, I did not know Which wholly consisted of lines like

The widow well. these.

So the harsh phrase pass’d unreprov'd : PART II

Still mute (O brothers, was it sin ?)— She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled I drank, unutterably mov'd, cheeks,

Her beauty in.
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
And spake not a word. While a lady speaks And to myself I murmur'd low,
There is hope, but she did n't even sneeze. As on her upturn'd face and dress

The moonlight fell, “Would she say She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson

cheeks ;

By chance, or Yes ?”
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
She gave up mending her father's breeks, She stood so calm, so like a ghost,
And let the cat roll in her best chemise. Betwixt me and that magic moon,

That I already was almost
She sat with her hands 'neath her burning

A finish'd coon. cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) But when she caught adroitly up And gaz'd at the piper for thirteen weeks ; And sooth'd with smiles her little daughThen she follow'd him out o'er the misty

ter; leas.

And gave it, if I'm right, a sup

Of barley-water ; Her sheep follow'd her, as their tails did them,

And, crooning still the strange, sweet (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)

lore And this song is consider'd a perfect gem; Which only mothers' tongues can utter, And as to the meaning, it's what you Snow'd with deft hand the sugar o'er please.

Its bread-and-butter;

And kiss'd it clingingly (ah, why

Don't women do these things in priI watch'd her as she stoop’d to pluck

vate ?)—
A wild flower in her hair to twine ; I felt that if I lost her, I
And wish'd that it had been


Should not survive it.
To call her mine ;

And from my mouth the words nigh Anon I heard her rate with mad,

flew, Mad words her babe within its cot, The past, the future, I forgat 'em, And felt particularly glad

"Oh, if you 'd kiss me as you do That it had not.

That thankless atom !”

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Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,

And try the “ Marlow cure.
You ’ll smooth the wrinkles on your brow,

And scare away each frown,
Feel young again once more, I vow,

At quaint old Marlow town.

Here Shelley dream'd and thought and

wrote, And wander'd o'er the leas; And sung

and drifted in his boat
Beneath the Bisham trees.
So let me sing, although I'm no

Great poet of renown,
Of hours that much too quickly go

At good old Marlow town!


On, Bisham Banks are fresh and fair,

And Quarry Woods are green,
And pure and sparkling is the air,

Enchanting is the scene !
I love the music of the weir,

As swift the stream runs down,
For oh, the water's deep and clear

That flows by Marlow town !
When London's getting hot and dry,

And half the season 's done,
To Marlow you should quickly fly,

And bask there in the sun.
There pleasant quarters you may find, -

The “ Angler" or the “ Crown” Will suit you well, if you're inclin'd

To stay in Marlow town.
I paddle up to Harleyford,

And sometimes I incline
To cushions take with lunch aboard,

And play with rod and line ;
For in a punt I love to laze,

And let my face get brown ; And dream away the sunny days

By dear old Marlow town. I go to luncheon at the Lawn,

I muse, I sketch, I rhyme ;
I headers take at early dawn,

I list to All Saints' cbime.
And in the river, flashing bright,

Dull care I strive to drown,
And get a famous appetite

At pleasant Marlow town.
So when no longer London life

You feel you can endure,

In sunny girlhood's vernal life

She caused no small sensation,
But now the modest English wife

To others leaves flirtation.
She's young still, lovely, debonair,

Although sometimes her features
Are clouded by a thought of care

For those two tiny creatures.
Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite

Asserts with voice emphatic,
In lisping accents, “Mite is right,

Their rule is autocratic :
The song becomes, that charm'd mankind,

Their musical narcotic,
And baby lips than Love, she 'll find,

Are even more despotic.

Soft lullaby when singing there,

And castles ever building,

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William John Courthope FROM "THE PARADISE OF Sweet to smell the freshening mould ; BIRDS”

But far sweeter than them all,

Flowers, sweet breath, or songs of lovers,

Are shilling eggs of golden plovers.
WHEN at close of winter's night Bid them pay, and men will buy
All the insect world 's a-wing ;

For their palate magic taste ;
When anemones are white;

Shift the prices, woman's eye When the first Lent lilies spring Leaves the diamond, likes the paste ; When the birds their troths do plight, If the market run not high, And all feather'd lovers sing ;

Heavenly nectar may go waste; Eggs of golden plovers reach

But each shilling paid discovers In London town a shilling each.

Fresh flavor in the eggs of plovers. Sweet it to see the gold

Brightening on the cowslip tall; Sweet to hear on lonely wold

O UNHATCH'D Bird, so high preferr'a, Birds by dawn their lovers call; As porter of the Pole,


Of beakless things, who have no wings,

Exact no heavy toll.
If this my song its theme should wrong,

The theme itself is sweet ;
Let others rhyme the unborn time,

I sing the Obsolete.
And first, I praise the nobler traits

Of birds preceding Noah,
The giant clan, whose meat was Man,

Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa. These, by the hints we get from prints

Of feathers and of feet, Excell'd in wits the later tits,

And so are obsolete.

Doublet and hose, and powder'd beaux ?

Where are thy songs, whose passion Turn'd thought to fire in knight and

squire, While hearts of ladies beat ? Where thy sweet style, ours, ours

while ? All this is obsolete.


In Auvergne low potatoes grow

Upon volcanoes old ; The moon, they say, had her young day,

Though now her heart is cold ;
Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth,

Seasons of snow and heat,
Check'd by her tides in silence glides

To become obsolete.

I sing each race whom we displace

In their primeval woods,
While Gospel Aid inspires Free-Trade

To traffic with their goods.
With Norman Dukes the still Sioux

In breeding might compete ;
But where men talk the tomahawk

Will soon grow obsolete.
I celebrate each perish'd State ;

Great cities plough'd to loam ; Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings;

Dead Greece, and dying Rome.
The Druids' shrine may shelter swine,

Or stack the farmer's peat; 'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths,

Mean men the obsolete.

The astrolabe of every babe

Reads, in its fatal sky, “Man's largest room is the low tomb —

Ye all are born to die.”
Therefore this theme, O Birds, I deem

The noblest we may treat ;
The final cause of Nature's laws
Is to



Shall nought be said of theories dead ?

The Ptolemaic system ?
Figure and phrase, that bent all ways

Duns Scotus lik'd to twist 'em ? Averrhoes' thought ? and what was taught

In Salamanca's seat ? Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs ?

Sea-serpents obsolete?

IF Transmigration e'er compel

A bird to live with human heart,
I pray that bird have choice to dwell

From human ills apart.
When swallows through the world went

forth, And watch'd affairs in every nation, They found for ever, south and north,

Vanity and Vexation.

So let him dwell not in the Town

There Trade and Penury roar and weep: But 'neath the silence of a down

Disturb'd by grazing sheep.

Pillion and pack have left their track ;

Dead is “the Tally-ho ;”
Steam rails cut down each festive crown

Of the old world and slow;
Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen,

Nor Maypole in the street ;
No mummers play on Christmas-day ;

St. George is obsolete.
O fancy, why hast thou let die

So many a frolic fashion ?

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