THE MERRY-GO-ROUND THE merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, the merry-go-round at Fowey! They whirl around, they gallop around, man, woman, and girl, and boy; They circle on wooden horses, white, black, brown, and bay, To a loud monotonous tune that hath a trumpet bray. All is dark where the circus stands on the narrow quay, Save for its own yellow lamps, that illumine it brilliantly: Painted purple and red, it pours a broad strong glow Over an old-world house, with a pillar'd place below; For the floor of the building rests on bandy columns small, And the bulging pile may, tottering, suddenly bury all. But there upon wooden benches, hunch'd in the summer night, Sit wrinkled sires of the village arow, whose hair is white; They sit like the mummies of men, with a glare upon them cast From a rushing flame of the living, like their own mad past; They are watching the merry-make, and their face is very grave; Over all are the silent stars! beyond, the cold gray wave. And while I gaze on the galloping horses circling round, The men caracoling up and down to a weird, monotonous sound, I pass into a bewilderment, and marvel why The merry-go-round, the merry-go-round, the merry-go-round at Fowey! They whirl around, they gallop around, man, woman, and girl, and boy. LAMENT I AM lying in the tomb, love, Tho' I move within the gloom, love. Men deem life not fled, dear, Tho' I with thee am dead, dear, What is the gray world, darling, Where the worm lies curl'd, darling, Will she waft upon her wing, dear, For the hallowing of thy smile, love, Would they put me out of pain, dear, Since I may not live again, dear, I am lying in the grave, love, Yet I hear the wind rave, love, I would lie asleep, darling, O my little child! Mine sings with him : If a low strain of music sails Softly wakes within my heart; In all that's pure and fair and good, Feel them blend, Although I fail to comprehend. When comes the reaper with his scythe, Lower the coffin and slip the cord: When logs about the house are stack'd, And next year's hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are crack'd, And faggots blaze and spit ; Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and doth not speak : But he puts his arm round the maid that's warm, And she tingles in the cheek. Death Death! Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. MOTHER-SONG WHITE little hands! Pink little feet! Dimpled all over, Sweet, sweet, sweet! What dost thou wail for? The unknown? the unseen? The ills that are coming, The joys that have been? Cling to me closer, Closer and closer, Hath banish'd the grosser. Little fingers that feel For their home on my breast, Little lips that appeal For their nurture, their rest! Why, why dost thou weep, dear? Nay, stifle thy cries, Till the dew of thy sleep, dear, Lies soft on thine eyes. AGATHA SHE wanders in the April woods, She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. She feels the ferment of the hour: She broodeth when the ringdove broods; The sun and flying clouds have power Upon her cheek and changing moods. She cannot think she is alone, As o'er her senses warmly steal Floods of unrest she fears to own, And almost dreads to feel. Among the summer woodlands wide Spring's blushing secret now is known. The primrose and its mates have flown, The thrush's ringing note hath died; But glancing eye and glowing tone Fall on her from her god, her guide. She knows not, asks not, what the goal, She only feels she moves towards bliss, And yields her pure unquestioning soul To touch and fondling kiss. And still she haunts those woodland ways, Though all fond fancy finds there now To mind of spring or summer days, Are sodden trunk and songless bough. The past sits widow'd on her brow, Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, To walls that house a hollow vow, To hearth where love hath ceas'd to blaze: Watches the clammy twilight wane, With grief too fix'd for woe or tear; And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, Envies the dying year. THE HAYMAKERS' SONG That lays it in and mows it, Now here's to him that stacks it, That cuts it out for eating, When March-dropp'd lambs are bleating, And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting, Drink, lads, drink! |