To Helen My own young flock, in fair progression, You grew a matron plump and comely, No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened:- Time passed. My eldest girl was married, One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure,— And that is not ten years ago. But though first love's impassioned blindness I still have thought of you with kindness, The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers 791 Thomas Love Peacock [1785-1866] TO HELEN IF wandering in a wizard's car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fashion of a little star A taper for my Helen's table; "What then?" she asks me with a laughWhy, then, with all heaven's luster glowing, It would not gild her path with half The light her love o'er mine is throwing! Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839] AT THE CHURCH GATE From "Pendennis" ALTHOUGH I enter not, And near the sacred gate, The Minster bell tolls out And noise and humming; They've hushed the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell; She's coming, she's coming! My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes-she's here-she's past! Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint! I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Toujours Amour Like outcast spirits, who wait, And see, through heaven's gate, 793 William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863] MABEL, IN NEW HAMPSHIRE FAIREST of the fairest, rival of the rose, That is Mabel of the Hills, as everybody knows. 1 Do you ask me near what stream this sweet floweret grows? That's an ignorant question, sir, as everybody knows. Ask you what her age is, reckoned as time goes? Is she tall as Rosalind, standing on her toes? What's the color of her eyes, when they ope or close? Is she lovelier dancing, or resting in repose? Do her ships go sailing on every wind that blows? Has she scores of lovers, heaps of bleeding beaux? I could tell you something, if I only chose!- TOUJOURS AMOUR PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, But a miracle of sweets, "Oh!" the rosy lips reply, Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? "Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!" Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908] THE DOORSTEP THE Conference-meeting through at last, Not braver he that leaps the wall Who longed to see me get the mitten. The Doorstep But no! she blushed and took my arm: I can't remember what we said,- The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming. The little hand outside her muff (O sculptor! if you could but mold it) So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. To have her with me there alone,- The old folks, too, were almost home: We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned!" dissembled; But yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed kindly overhead, The moon was slyly peeping through it, Yet hid its face, as if it said- 795 |