There is also a word that no one heard But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet, And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, For ever through life the Curé goes With a smile on his kind old face With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair And his green umbrella-case. THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS (FOR A FRESCO) FIRSTLY thou, churl son of Janus, Rough for cold, in drugget clad, Com'st with rack and rheum to pain us ;Firstly thou, churl son of Janus. Caverned now is old Sylvanus ; Numb and chill are maid and lad. After thee thy dripping brother, Dank his weeds around him cling; Fogs his footsteps swathe and smother,After thee thy dripping brother. Hearth-set couples hush each other, Listening for the cry of Spring. Hark! for March thereto doth follow, Thou then, April, Iris' daughter, Born between the storm and sun; Coy as nymph ere Pan hath caught her, Thou then, April, Iris' daughter. May the jocund cometh after, Month of all the Loves (and mine); Month of mock and cuckoo-laughter,May the jocund cometh after. Beaks are gay on roof and rafter; Luckless lovers peak and pine. June the next, with roses scented, Hot July thereafter rages, Dog-star smitten, wild with heat; Fierce as pard the hunter cages,— Hot July thereafter rages. Traffic now no more engages; Tongues are still in stall and street. August next, with cider mellow, Laughs from out the poppied corn ; Hook at back, a lusty fellow,— August next, with cider mellow. Now in wains the sheafage yellow 'Twixt the hedges slow is borne. Laden deep with fruity cluster, Then September, ripe and hale; Bees about his basket fluster,— Laden deep with fruity cluster. Skies have now a softer lustre ; Barns resound to flap of flail. Thou then, too, of woodlands lover, Dusk October, berry-stained; Wailed about of parting plover,— Thou then, too, of woodlands lover. Fading now are copse and cover; Forests now are sere and waned. Next November, limping, battered, Last of all the shrunk December Life and joy must pass away. B TWO SERMONS OETWEEN the rail of woven brass, That hides the "Strangers' Pew," I hear the gray-haired Vicar pass From Section One to Two. And somewhere on my left I see- A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily, Who notes them-in a book. Ah, worthy GoODMAN,-sound divine! If I admit these thoughts of mine I know your theme, and I revere; A sermon at my side? Or how explain this need I feel,- To Faith,-to Purity! |