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Her sheep followed her, as their tails did them.

(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is considered a perfect gem,

And as to the meaning, it's what you please.

LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION

Imitation of Jean Ingelow

IN

N MOSS-PRANKT dells which the sunbeams flatter,

(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;
Meaning, however, is no great matter)
When woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;

Thro' God's own heather we wonned together,

I and my Willie (O love my love):
I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,

And flitterbats wavered alow, above;

Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing,

(Boats in that climate are so polite)
And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,

And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!

Thro' the rare red heather we danced together,

(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:
I must mention again it was gorgeous weather,

Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:

By rises that flushed with their purple favors,

Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,
We walked or waded, we two young shavers,

Thanking our stars we were both so green.
We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,

In fortunate parallels! Butterflies,
Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly

Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:

Song-birds darted about, some inky

As coal, some snowy, I ween, as curds; (Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky -)

They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!

But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,

Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;

They need no parasols, no goloshes;

And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather)

That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;
And snapt (it was perfectly charming weather) —

Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:
And Willie 'gan sing (O his notes were fluty;

Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea).
Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,

Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry):
Bowers of flowers encountered showers

In William's carol (O love my Willie!)
When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe to-inorrow

I quite forget what -- say a daffodilly.
A nest in a hollow, with buds to follow,

I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
And clay that was “kneaden, of course in Eden,-

A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:
Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,

And all at least furlable things got “furled ”;
Not with any design to conceal their glories,

But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.”

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Oh, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,

And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,
Could be furled together, this genial weather,

And carted or carried in wafts away,
Nor ever again trotted out — ay me!
How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!

VISIONS

From Fly-Leaves)

« She was a phantom » etc. N LONE Glenartney's thickets lies couched the lordly stag,

The dreaming terrier's tail forgets its customary wag; And plodding plowmen's weary steps insensibly grow quicker, As broadening casements light them on toward home, or home

brewed liquor.

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It is — in brief — the evening: that pure and pleasant time,
When stars break into splendor, and poets into rhyme;
When in the glass of Memory the forms of loved ones shine -
And when, of course, Miss Goodchild is prominent in mine.

Miss Goodchild — Julia Goodchild!- how graciously you smiled Upon my childish passion once, yourself a fair-haired child: When I was (no doubt) profiting by Dr. Crabb's instruction, And sent those streaky lollipops honie for your fairy suction.

« She wore

» her natural “roses, the night when first we met,” – Her golden hair was gleaming neath the coercive net: « Her brow was like the snawdrift,” her step was like Queen

Mab's,
And gone was instantly the heart of every boy at Crabb's.

The parlor-boarder chasséed tow'rds her on graceful limb;
The onyx decked his bosom – but her smiles were not for him :
With me she danced — till drowsily her eyes began to blink,”
And I brought raisin wine, and said, “Drink, pretty creature,

drink!»

((

And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,
And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;
Shall I — with that soft hand in mine-enact ideal Lancers,
And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned

answers.

I know that never, never may her love for me return
At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern
But ever shall I bless that day!—I don't bless, as a rule,
The days I spent at “Dr. Crabb's Preparatory School.”

And yet we two may meet again,- (Be still, my throbbing heart!)
Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry-tart.
One night I saw a vision – 'twas when musk-roses bloom,
I stood

we stood upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:
One hand clasped hers — one easily reposed upon my hip —
And “Bless ye!” burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild's lip:
I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam-
My heart beat wildly — and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.

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I used to roam o'er glen and glade,

Buoyant and blithe as other folk,
And not unfrequently I made

A joke.
A minstrel's fire within me burned;

I'd sing, as one whose heart must break, Lay upon lay-I nearly learned

To shake.
All day I sang; of love and fame,

Of fights our fathers fought of yore,
L'ntil the thing almost became

A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now!

It is not that I deem them low; 'Tis that I can't remember how

They go.
I could not range the hills till high

Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly

As soon.

The sports, to which with boyish glee

I sprang erewhile, attract no more: Although I am but sixty-three

Or four.

Nay, worse than that, I've seemed of late

To shrink from happy boyhood – boys Have grown so noisy, and I hate

A noise. They fright me when the beech is green,

By swarming up its stem for eggs;
They drive their horrid hoops between

My legs.
It's idle to repine, I know;

I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
I'll drink my arrowroot, and go

To bed.

THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION

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vs but a box, of modest deal;

Directed to no matter where:

Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal Yes, I am blubbering like a seal; For on it is this mute appeal,

« With care.

I am a stern cold man, and range

Apart: but those vague words “ With care» Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange: Drawn from my moral Moated Grange, I feel I rather like the change

Of air.

Hast thou ne'er seen rough pointsmen spy

Some simple English phrase — «With care>> Or This side upper most » — and cry Like children? No? No more have I. Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry

A bear.

But ah! what treasure hides beneath

That lid so much the worse for wear ?
A ring perhaps - a rosy wreath
A photograph by Vernon Heath
Some matron's temporary teeth

Or hair!

Perhaps some seaman, in Peru

Or Ind, hath stowed herein a rare
Cargo of birds'-eggs for his Sue;
With many a vow that he'll be true,
And many a hint that she is too —

Too fair.

Perhaps -- but wherefore vainly pry

Into the page that's folded there?
I shall be better by-and-by:
The porters, as I sit and sigh,
Pass and repass — I wonder why

They stare!

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