Country Sentiment | Page 9

moon."
He raised his voice, a grating creak,?But only to himself would speak.?Groaning with tears in piteous pain,?"O! O! would I were home again."
Then Jane ran off, quick as she could,?To cheer his heart with drink and food.?But ah, too late came ale and bread,?She found the poor soul stretched stone-dead.?And a new moon rode overhead.
VAIN AND CARELESS.
Lady, lovely lady,?Careless and gay!?Once when a beggar called?She gave her child away.
The beggar took the baby,?Wrapped it in a shawl,?"Bring her back," the lady said,?"Next time you call."
Hard by lived a vain man,?So vain and so proud,?He walked on stilts?To be seen by the crowd.
Up above the chimney pots,?Tall as a mast,?And all the people ran about?Shouting till he passed.
"A splendid match surely,"?Neighbours saw it plain,?"Although she is so careless,?Although he is so vain."
But the lady played bobcherry,?Did not see or care,?As the vain man went by her?Aloft in the air.
This gentle-born couple?Lived and died apart.?Water will not mix with oil,?Nor vain with careless heart.
NINE O'CLOCK.
I.
Nine of the clock, oh!?Wake my lazy head!?Your shoes of red morocco,?Your silk bed-gown:?Rouse, rouse, speck-eyed Mary?In your high bed!?A yawn, a smile, sleepy-starey,?Mary climbs down.?"Good-morning to my brothers,?Good-day to the Sun,?Halloo, halloo to the lily-white sheep?That up the mountain run."
II.
Good-night to the meadow, farewell to the nine o'clock Sun, "He loves me not, loves me, he loves me not" (O jealous one!) "He loves me, he loves me not, loves me"--O soft nights of June, A bird sang for love on the cherry-bough: up swam the Moon.
THE PICTURE BOOK.
When I was not quite five years old?I first saw the blue picture book,?And Fraulein Spitzenburger told?Stories that sent me hot and cold;?I loathed it, yet I had to look:?It was a German book.
I smiled at first, for she'd begun?With a back-garden broad and green,?And rabbits nibbling there: page one?Turned; and the gardener fired his gun?From the low hedge: he lay unseen?Behind: oh, it was mean!
They're hurt, they can't escape, and so?He stuffs them head-down in a sack,?Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,?And Fraulein laughed, "Ho, ho! Ho, ho!"?And gave my middle a hard smack,?I wish that I'd hit back.
Then when I cried she laughed again;?On the next page was a dead boy?Murdered by robbers in a lane;?His clothes were red with a big stain?Of blood, he held a broken toy,?The poor, poor little boy!
I had to look: there was a town?Burning where every one got caught,?Then a fish pulled a nigger down?Into the lake and made him drown,?And a man killed his friend; they fought?For money, Fraulein thought.
Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise.?"Ho, ho!" Then she explained it all?How robbers kill the little boys?And torture them and break their toys.?Robbers are always big and tall:?I cried: I was so small.
How a man often kills his wife,?How every one dies in the end?By fire, or water or a knife.?If you're not careful in this life,?Even if you can trust your friend,?You won't have long to spend.
I hated it--old Fraulein picked?Her teeth, slowly explaining it.?I had to listen, Fraulein licked?Her fingers several times and flicked?The pages over; in a fit?Of rage I spat at it...
And lying in my bed that night?Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found?A stretch of barren years in sight,?Where right is wrong, but strength is right,?Where weak things must creep underground,?And I could not sleep sound.
THE PROMISED LULLABY.
Can I find True-Love a gift?In this dark hour to restore her,?When body's vessel breaks adrift,?When hope and beauty fade before her??But in this plight I cannot think?Of song or music, that would grieve her,?Or toys or meat or snow-cooled drink;?Not this way can her sadness leave her.?She lies and frets in childish fever,?All I can do is but to cry?"Sleep, sleep, True-Love and lullaby!"
Lullaby, and sleep again.?Two bright eyes through the window stare,?A nose is flattened on the pane?And infant fingers fumble there.?"Not yet, not yet, you lovely thing,?But count and come nine weeks from now,?When winter's tail has lost the sting,?When buds come striking through the bough,?Then here's True-Love will show you how?Her name she won, will hush your cry?With "Sleep, my baby! Lullaby!"
RETROSPECT
HAUNTED.
Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine,?Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing?And lay ghost hands on everything,?But leave the noonday's warm sunshine?To living lads for mirth and wine.
I met you suddenly down the street,?Strangers assume your phantom faces,?You grin at me from daylight places,?Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet?Dead men down the morning street.
RETROSPECT: THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK.
He had met hours of the clock he never guessed before--?Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear, Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore,?Bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear,?And will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground,?Rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound.
When noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold