What then might come of silent misery, What new resolvings then might intervene, I know not. Only, with the morning sky, The goat stood tethered on the "Dragon" green, And those who, wondering, questioned thereupon, Found the hut empty,-for the man was gone. UPID LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE. "the music of the moon Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale." AYLMER'S FIELD. FIVE geese, a landscape damp and wild, A stunted, not too pretty, child, Beneath a battered gingham; Such things, to say the least, require A Muse of more-than-average Fire To adequately sing 'em. And yet-Why should they? Souls of mark Have sprung from such ;-e'en Joan of Arc Had scarce a grander duty; Not always ('tis a maxim trite) From righteous sources comes the right,— From beautiful the beauty. Who shall decide where seed is sown? Maybe some priceless germ was blown (And what must grow will still increase Maybe this homely face may hide A Staël before whose mannish pride Our frailer sex may tremble; Perchance this audience anserine May hiss (O fluttering Muse of mine!)— May hiss a future Kemble! Or say the gingham shadows o'er An undeveloped Hannah More!— A latent Mrs. Trimmer !! Who shall affirm it ?-who deny ? Since of the truth nor you nor I So then-Caps off, my Masters all Reserve your final word,-recall Your all-too-hasty strictures; Caps off, I say, for Wisdom sees In most unhopeful pictures. ; |