O pleasant Earth! This happy home!

The darling at my knee!

My own dear wife! Thyself, old Friend!

And must it come to me That any face shall fill my place Unknown to them and thee?

RUSSET PITCHER.

"The pot goeth so long to the water til at length it commeth broken home."

Away, ye simple ones, away!

Bring no vain fancies. .h.i.ther; The brightest dreams of youth decay, The fairest roses wither.

Ay, since this fountain first was planned, And Dryad learnt to drink, Have lovers held, knit hand in hand, Sweet parley at its brink.

From youth to age this waterfall Most tunefully flows on, But where, ay, tell me where are all The constant lovers gone?

The falcon on the turtle preys, And beardless vows are brittle; The brightest dream of youth decays,-- Ah, love is good for little.

"Sweet maiden, set thy pitcher down, And heed a Truth neglected:-- _The more this sorry world is known, The less it is respected_.

"Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold, It flatters and beguiles; Though Giles is young, and I am old, Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.

"Thy pitcher may some luckless day Be broken coming hither; Thy doting slave may prove a knave,-- The fairest roses wither."

She laughed outright, she scorned him quite, She deftly filled her pitcher; For that dear sight an anchorite Might deem himself the richer.

Ill-fated damsel! go thy ways, Thy lover's vows are lither; The brightest dream of youth decays, The fairest roses wither.

These days were soon the days of yore; Six summers pa.s.s, and then That musing man would see once more The fountain in the glen.

Again to stray where once he strayed, Through copse and quiet dell, Half hoping to espy the maid Pa.s.s tripping to the well.

No light step comes, but, evil-starred, He finds a mournful token,-- There lies a russet pitcher marred,-- The damsel's pitcher broken!

Profoundly moved, that muser cried, "The spoiler has been hither; O would the maiden first had died,-- The fairest rose must wither!"

He turned from that accursed ground, His world-worn bosom throbbing; A bow-shot thence a child he found, The little man was sobbing.

He gently stroked that curly head,-- "My child, what brings thee hither?

Weep not, my simple one," he said, "Or let us weep together.

"Thy world, I ween, is gay and green As Eden undefiled; Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,-- Where dwellest thou, my child?"

'Twas then the rueful urchin spoke:-- "My daddy's Giles the ditcher, I fetch the water,--and I've broke ...

I've broke my mammy's pitcher!"

THE FAIRY ROSE.

"There are plenty of roses," (the patriarch speaks) "Alas! not for me, on your lips, and your cheeks; Sweet maiden, rose-laden--enough and to spare,-- Spare, oh spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair."

"O raise not thy hand," cries the maid, "nor suppose That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose: The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare, it Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.

"'Entwine it,' said they, 'with your curls in a braid, It will blossom in winter--it never will fade; And, when tempted to rove, recollect, ere you hie, Where you're dying to go--'twill be going to die.'

"And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heighho,'

Dost think I possess not the will to say 'No?'

And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be Should supplicants come more persuasive than thee."

The damsel pa.s.sed on with a confident smile, The old man extended his walk for awhile; His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth, The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.

Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there, Rosy day dons the garb of a penitent fair; The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid, Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.

And Echo was mute to his leisurely tread,-- "How tranquil is nature reposing," he said; He onward advances, where boughs overshade, "How lonely," quoth he--and his footsteps he stayed!

He gazes around, not a creature is there, No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air; But fading there lies a poor Bloom that he knows, --Bad luck to the Fairies that gave her the Rose.

1863.

These verses were published in 1863, in "A Welcome," dedicated to the Princess of Wales.

The town despises modern lays: The foolish town is frantic For story-books which tell of days That time has made romantic: Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill And dead in crypt and barrow; When soldiers were--as Love is still-- Content with bow and arrow.

But why should we the fancy chide?

The world will always hunger To know how people lived and died When all the world was younger.

We like to read of knightly parts In maidenhood's distresses: Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts, And moonbeams on dark tresses;

And how, when errant-_knyghte_ or _erl_ Proved well the love he gave her, She sent him scarf or silken curl, As earnest of her favour; And how (the Fair at times were rude!) Her knight, ere homeward riding, Would take--and, ay, with grat.i.tude-- His lady's silver chiding.

We love the "rare old days and rich"

That poesy has painted; We mourn the "good old times" with which We never were acquainted.

Last night a lady tried to prove (And not a lady youthful): "Ah, once it was no crime to love, Nor folly to be truthful!"

Absurd! Then dames in castles dwelt, Nor dared to show their noses: Then pa.s.sion that could not be spelt, Was hinted at in posies.

Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh: For sweethearts, in love's tremor, Now tell their vows by telegraph-- And go off in the steamer!