Then homewards wend my weary way, And read dry law books as I may, No solace will they yield.

And so the sad day finishes With one long sigh and yearning cry, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

IV.

The fields are bright, and all bedight With b.u.t.tercups and daisies; Oh, how I long to quit the throng Of human forms and faces: The vain delights, the empty shows, The toil and care bewild'rin', To feel once more the sweet repose Calm Nature gives her children.

At times the thrush shall sing, and hush The twitt'ring yellow-hammer; The blackbird fl.u.s.ter from the bush With panic-stricken clamour; The finch in thistles hide from sight, And snap the seeds and toss 'em; The blue-t.i.t hop, with pert delight, About the crab-tree blossom; The homely robin shall draw near, And sing a song most tender; The black-cap whistle soft and clear, Swayed on a twig top slender; The weasel from the hedge-row creep, So crafty and so cruel, The rabbit from the tussock leap, And splash the frosty jewel.

I care not what the season be-- Spring, summer, autumn, winter-- In morning sweet, or noon-day heat, Or when the moonbeams glint, or When rosy beams and fiery gleams, And floods of golden yellow, Proclaim the sweetest hour of all-- The evening mild and mellow.

There, though the spring shall backward keep, And loud the March winds bl.u.s.ter, The white anemone shall peep Through loveliest leaves in cl.u.s.ter.

There primrose pale or violet blue Shall gleam between the gra.s.ses; And st.i.tchwort white fling starry light, And blue bells blaze in ma.s.ses.

As summer grows and spring-time goes, O'er all the hedge shall ramble The woodbine and the wilding rose, And blossoms of the bramble.

When autumn comes, the leafy ways To red and yellow turning, With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze, And scarlet briony burning.

When winter reigns and sheets of snow, The flowers and gra.s.s lie under; The sparkling h.o.a.r frost yet shall show, A world of fairy wonder.

To me more dear such scenes appear, Than this eternal racket, No longer will I fret and f.a.g!

Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag, And help me quick to pack it.

For here one must go where every one goes, And meet shoals of people whom one never knows, Till it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic; And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows, And will do just the same when I'm dead I suppose; And I'm rapidly growing a sceptic.

For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack!

I've a pain in my head and an ache in my back; A terrible cold that makes me shiver, And a general sense of a dried-up liver; And I feel I can hardly bear it.

And it's oh for a field with four hedgerows, And the bliss which comes from an hour's repose, And a true, true friend to share it.

PROTHALAMION.

The following "Prothalamion" was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham. It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches.

Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat themselves.

Nothing so true as what you once let fall,-- "To growl at something is the lot of all; Contentment is a gem on earth unknown, And Perfect Happiness the wizard's stone.

Give me," you cried, "to see my duty clear, And room to work, unhindered in my sphere; To live my life, and work my work alone, Unloved while living, and unwept when gone.

Let none my triumphs or my failures share, Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir."

Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower, Wish to make all men good, but want the power.

Freedom you'll have, but still will lack the thrall,-- The bond of sympathy, which binds us all.

Children and wives are hostages to fame, But aids and helps in every useful aim.

You answer, "Look around, where'er you will, Experience teaches the same lesson still.

Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten, To abject drudgery dooms its married men: A slave at first, before the knot is tied, But soon a mere appendage to the bride; A cover, next, to shield her arts from blame; At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame; In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord; Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored."

This picture, friend, is surely overdone, You paint the tribe by drawing only one; Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, conclude The man's whole life with misery imbued.

Say, what can Horace want to crown his life, Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife?

His lively grin proclaims the man is blest, Here perfect happiness must be confessed!

Hark, hear that melancholy shriek, alack!-- That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack.

This evil vexed not Courthope's happy ways, Who wants no extra coat on coldest days.

His face, his walk, his dress--whate'er you scan, He stands revealed the prosperous gentleman.

Still must he groan each Sabbath, while he hears The hoa.r.s.e Gregorians vex his tortured ears.

Sure Bosanquet true happiness must know, While wit and wisdom mingle as they flow, Him Bromley Sunday scholars will obey; For him e'en Leech will work a good half day; He strives to hide the fear he still must feel, Lest sharp Jack Frost should catch his Marshal Niel.

Peace to all such; but were there one, whose fires True genius kindles and fair fame inspires; Blest with demurrers, statements, counts, and pleas, And born to arbitrations, briefs, and fees; Should such a man, couched on his easy throne, (Unlike the Turk) desire to live alone; View every virgin with distrustful eyes, And dread those arts, which suitors mostly prize, Alike averse to blame, or to commend, Not quite their foe, but something less than friend; Dreading e'en widows, when by these besieged; And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; Who, in all marriage contracts, looks for flaws, And sits, and meditates on Salic laws; While Pall Mall bachelors proclaim his praise, And spinsters wonder at his works and ways; Who would not smile if such a man there be?

Who would not weep if Atticus were he?

Oh, blest beyond the common lot are they, On whom Contentment sheds her cheerful ray; Who find in Duty's path unmixed delight, And perfect Pleasure in pursuit of Right; Thankful for every Joy they feel, or share, Unsought for blessings, like the light and air, And grateful even for the ills they bear; Wedded or single, taking nought amiss, And learning that Content is more than Bliss.

Oh, friend, may each domestic joy be thine, Be no unpleasing melancholy mine.

As rolling years disclose the will of Fate, I see you wedded to some equal mate; Thronged by a crowd of growing girls and boys, A heap of troubles, but a host of joys.

On sights like these, should length of days attend, Still may good luck pursue you to the end; Still heaven vouchsafe the gifts it has in store; Still make you, what you would be, more and more; Preserve you happy, cheerful, and serene, Blest with your young retainers, and your Queen.

YOUNG ENGLAND.

The times still "grow to something strange"; We rap and turn the tables; We fire our guns at awful range; We lay Atlantic cables; We bore the hills, we bridge the seas-- To me 'tis better far To sit before my fire at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

We start gigantic bubble schemes,-- Whoever _can_ invent 'em!-- How splendid the prospectus seems, With int'rest cent. per centum His shares the holder, startled, sees At eighty below par: I dawdle to my club at ease, And light a mild cigar.

We pickle peas, we lock up sound, We bottle electricity; We run our railways underground, Our trams above in this city We fly balloons in calm or breeze, And tumble from the car; I wander down Pall Mall at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

Some strive to get a post or place, Or entree to society; Or after wealth or pleasure race, Or any notoriety; Or s.n.a.t.c.h at t.i.tles or degrees, At ribbon, cross, or star: I elevate my limbs at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

Some people strive for manhood right With riots or orations; For anti-vaccination fight, Or temperance demonstrations: I gently smile at things like these, And, 'mid the clash and jar, I sit in my arm-chair at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

They say young ladies all demand A smart barouche and pair, Two flunkies at the door to stand, A mansion in May Fair: I can't afford such things as these, I hold it safer far To sip my claret at my ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

It may be proper one should take One's place in the creation; It may be very right to make A choice of some vocation; With such remarks one quite agrees, So sensible they are: I much prefer to take my ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

They say our morals are so so, Religion still more hollow; And where the upper cla.s.ses go, The lower always follow; That honour lost with grace and ease Your fortunes will not mar: That's not so well; but, if you please, We'll light a fresh cigar.

Rank heresy is fresh and green, E'en womenkind have caught it; They say the Bible doesn't mean What people always thought it; That miracles are what you please, Or nature's order mar: I read the last review at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

Some folks who make a fearful fuss, In eighteen ninety-seven, Say, heaven will either come to us, Or we shall go to heaven; They settle it just as they please; But, though it mayn't be far, At any rate there's time with ease To light a fresh cigar.

It may be there is something true; It may be one might find it; It may be, if one looked life through, That something lies behind it; It may be, p'raps, for aught one sees, The things that may be, are: I'm growing serious--if you please We'll light a fresh cigar.

AN OLDE LYRIC.

I.

Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye, My own true love so sweete?

For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye The prynte of her faery feete.

Now, how can we telle if she pa.s.sed us bye?

Is she darke or fayre to see?

Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies?

Is't braided her haire or free?