The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend!

You seem to be happy to-day."

"O yes, fair Sirs," the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; "An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said; "Our luck has led us aright.

I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the gra.s.s, And laughed till his face was black; "I would do it, G.o.d wot," and he roared with the fun, "But I haven't a shirt to my back."

Each day to the king the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Pa.s.sed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the king was well and gay.

JOHN HAY.

_Made in the Hot Weather_

Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet's ferneries; A green sky's minor thirds-- To live, I think of these!

Of ice and gla.s.s the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill, Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow at will From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon's dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds-- To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one's naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds-- To live, I think of these!

ENVOY

Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens' tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words-- To live, I think of these!

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

_The Housekeeper_

The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, Carries his house with him where'er he goes; Peeps out,--and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile again.

Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well,-- He curls up in his sanctuary sh.e.l.l.

He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.

Himself he boards and lodges; both invites And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.

He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattels; himself is his own furniture, And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam,-- Knock when you will,--he's sure to be at home.

CHARLES LAMB.

_The Monkey_

Monkey, little merry fellow, Thou art Nature's Punchinello; Full of fun as Puck could be-- Harlequin might learn of thee!

In the very ark, no doubt, You went frolicking about; Never keeping in your mind Drowned monkeys left behind!

Have you no traditions--none, Of the court of Solomon?

No memorial how you went With Prince Hiram's armament?

Look now at him! slyly peep; He pretends he is asleep!

Fast asleep upon his bed, With his arm beneath his head.

Now that posture is not right, And he is not settled quite; There! that's better than before-- And the knave pretends to snore!

Ha! he is not half asleep: See, he slyly takes a peep.

Monkey, though your eyes were shut, You could see this little nut.

You shall have it, pigmy brother!

What, another! and another!

Nay, your cheeks are like a sack-- Sit down, and begin to crack.

There the little ancient man Cracks as fast as crack he can!

Now good-bye, you merry fellow, Nature's primest Punchinello.

MARY HOWITT.

_November_

No sun--no moon!

No morn--no noon-- No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no "t'other side the way"-- No end to any Row-- No indications where the crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing 'em-- No knowing 'em!

No traveling at all--no locomotion-- No inkling of the way--no notion-- "No go"--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no n.o.bility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no b.u.t.terflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds-- November!

THOMAS HOOD.

_Captain Sword_

Captain Sword got up one day, Over the hills to march away, Over the hills and through the towns, They heard him coming across the downs, Stepping in music and thunder sweet, Which his drums sent before him into the street, And lo! 'twas a beautiful sight in the sun; For first came his foot, all marching like one, With tranquil faces, and bristling steel, And the flag full of honour as though it could feel, And the officers gentle, the sword that hold 'Gainst the shoulder, heavy with trembling gold, And the ma.s.sy tread, that in pa.s.sing is heard, Though the drums and the music say never a word.

And then came his horse, a cl.u.s.tering sound, Of shapely potency forward bound.

Glossy black steeds, and riders tall Rank after rank, each looking like all; 'Midst moving repose and a threatening calm, With mortal sharpness at each right arm, And hues that painters and ladies love, And ever the small flag blushed above.

And ever and anon the kettledrums beat, Hasty power 'midst order meet; And ever and anon the drums and fifes Came like motion's voice, and life's; Or into the golden grandeurs fell Of deeper instruments mingling well, Burdens of beauty for winds to bear; And the cymbals kissed in the shining air, And the trumpets their visible voices rear'd, Each looking forth with its tapestried beard, Bidding the heavens and earth make way For Captain Sword and his battle array.

He, nevertheless, rode, indifferent-eyed, As if pomp were a toy to his manly pride, Whilst the ladies loved him the more for his scorn, And thought him the n.o.blest man ever was born, And tears came into the bravest eyes, And hearts swell'd after him double their size, And all that was weak, and all that was strong, Seem'd to think wrong's self in him could not be wrong, Such love, though with bosom about to be gored, Did sympathy get for brave Captain Sword.

So half that night, as he stopped in the town, 'Twas all one dance going merrily down, With lights in windows and love in eyes And a constant feeling of sweet surprise; But all the next morning 'twas tears and sighs, For the sound of his drums grew less and less, Walking like carelessness off from distress; And Captain Sword went whistling gay, "Over the hills and far away."

LEIGH HUNT.