BETWEEN the berried holly-bush
The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush: "Which way did bright-eyed Bella go? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery?"
The Throstle pecked the berries still.
"No need for looking, Yellow-bill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,-
"Tchuck, 'tis a merry pairing-time!"
"What would you?" twittered in the Wren;
"These are the reckless ways of men.
I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of Spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
'Twould save this inconsistency."
"Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, "nay;
I like their unreflective way.
Besides, I heard enough to show
Their love is proof against the snow :-
'Why wait,' he said, 'why wait for May,
When love can warm a winter's day?'
(An alien touch but dust perceives,
Nought else supposes ;)
For me those fragrant ruins raise
Clear memory of the vanished days
When they were roses.
"If youth but knew!" Ah, "if,” in truth ?— I can recall with what gay youth,
To what light chorus, Unsobered yet by time or change, We roamed the many-gabled Grange, All life before us;
Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp, To catch the dim Arthurian camp
Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,
Or rapped at walls for sliding doors
Of feigned existence.
What need had we for thoughts or cares!
The hot sun parched the old parterres
And "flowerful closes ";
We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, Played hide-and-seek behind the trees,— Then plucked these roses.
Louise was one-light, glib Louise,
So freshly freed from school decrees
You scarce could stop her;
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised
At fallen locks that scandalised
Our dear "Miss Proper ";-
Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness,
Who wept-like Chaucer's Prioress,
When Dash was smitten;
Who blushed before the mildest men,
Yet waxed a very Corday when
You teased her kitten.
I loved them all. Bell first and best;
Louise the next-for days of jest
Or madcap masking;
And Ruth, I thought,-why, failing these, When my High-Mightiness should please, She'd come for asking.
Louise was grave when last we met;
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set;
And Ruth, Heaven bless her,
Ruth that I wooed, and wooed in vain,-
Has
gone where neither grief nor pain
Can now distress her.
A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME
then must once have looked, as Look now, across the level rye,— Past Church and Manor-house, and seen, As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton's river-she
Whose old-world name was
The swallows must have twittered, too,
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt,-and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,-
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.
What was she like? I picture her
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ;-
Soft,-pensive,-far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
Whose crude perception could but see
"Ma'am Fine-airs" in "Miss Dorothy."
How not? She loved, maybe, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ;—
Perchance too candidly preferred
"Clarissa" to a gossip's word;—
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull-this Dorothy.
Poor child!with heart the down-lined nest
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree,
Unwinged from birth ;-poor Dorothy!
Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At "twice-told tales" of foxes killed;—
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port-and Dorothy!
'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!
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