She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face With flashes of the old fun's animation There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation Bred of a past where troubles came apace.

She tells me that her husband, ere he died, Saw seven of their children pa.s.s away, And never knew the little la.s.s at play Out on the green, in whom he's deified.

Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone, All simple faith her honest Irish mind, Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on: Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part, Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.

XX--VISITOR

Her little face is like a walnut sh.e.l.l With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns; And all about her clings an old, sweet smell.

Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl.

Well might her bonnets have been born on her.

Can you conceive a Fairy G.o.dmother The subject of a strong religious call?

In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs, All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales, Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray, Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns: A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom's way, Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails.

XXI--ROMANCE

'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor, Set at euchre on his elbow, 'I was on the wharf at Charleston, Just ash.o.r.e from off the runner.

'It was grey and dirty weather, And I heard a drum go rolling, Rub-a-dubbing in the distance, Awful dour-like and defiant.

'In and out among the cotton, Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors, Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows - Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!

'Some had shoes, but all had rifles, Them that wasn't bald was beardless, And the drum was rolling Dixie, And they stepped to it like men, sir!

'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets, On they swung, the drum a-rolling, Mum and sour. It looked like fighting, And they meant it too, by thunder!'

XXII--PASTORAL

It's the Spring.

Earth has conceived, and her bosom, Teeming with summer, is glad.

Vistas of change and adventure, Thro' the green land The grey roads go beckoning and winding, Peopled with wains, and melodious With harness-bells jangling: Jangling and tw.a.n.gling rough rhythms To the slow march of the stately, great horses Whistled and shouted along.

White fleets of cloud, Argosies heavy with fruitfulness, Sail the blue peacefully. Green flame the hedgerows.

Blackbirds are bugling, and white in wet winds Sway the tall poplars.

Pageants of colour and fragrance, Pa.s.s the sweet meadows, and viewless Walks the mild spirit of May, Visibly blessing the world.

O, the brilliance of blossoming orchards!

O, the savour and thrill of the woods, When their leaf.a.ge is stirred By the flight of the Angel of Rain!

Loud lows the steer; in the fallows Rooks are alert; and the brooks Gurgle and tinkle and trill. Thro' the gloamings, Under the rare, shy stars, Boy and girl wander, Dreaming in darkness and dew.

It's the Spring.

A sprightliness feeble and squalid Wakes in the ward, and I sicken, Impotent, winter at heart.

XXIII--MUSIC

Down the quiet eve, Thro' my window with the sunset Pipes to me a distant organ Foolish ditties;

And, as when you change Pictures in a magic lantern, Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling Fade and vanish,

And I'm well once more . . .

August flares adust and torrid, But my heart is full of April Sap and sweetness.

In the quiet eve I am loitering, longing, dreaming . . .

Dreaming, and a distant organ Pipes me ditties.

I can see the shop, I can smell the sprinkled pavement, Where she serves--her chestnut chignon Thrills my senses!

O, the sight and scent, Wistful eve and perfumed pavement!

In the distance pipes an organ . . .

The sensation

Comes to me anew, And my spirit for a moment Thro' the music breathes the blessed Airs of London.

XXIV--SUICIDE

Staring corpselike at the ceiling, See his harsh, unrazored features, Ghastly brown against the pillow, And his throat--so strangely bandaged!

Lack of work and lack of victuals, A debauch of smuggled whisky, And his children in the workhouse Made the world so black a riddle

That he plunged for a solution; And, although his knife was edgeless, He was sinking fast towards one, When they came, and found, and saved him.

Stupid now with shame and sorrow, In the night I hear him sobbing.

But sometimes he talks a little.

He has told me all his troubles.

In his broad face, tanned and bloodless, White and wild his eyeb.a.l.l.s glisten; And his smile, occult and tragic, Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!