Country Sentiment | Page 4

man.
AFTER THE PLAY.
Father

Have you spent the money I gave you to-day?
John
Ay, father I have.
A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away
To
a beggar I gave.
Father
The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell,
Such lies that you
spin.
Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell,
Say, where
have you been?
John
I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need?
To the Play I went,

With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed,
The best ever
spent.
Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story--
My splendid night!

It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory,
Fear with delight.
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale:
He of that name,
A tall,
glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail,
Two eyes like
flame.
All the furies of fate circled round the man,
Maddening his heart,

There was old murder done before play began,
Ay, the ghost took
part.
There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones,
And with
rage and grief
All the players shouted in full, kingly tones,
Grand,
passing belief.
Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day,
And changing scenes:

Great sounding words were tossed about like hay
By kings and
queens.

How the plot turned about I watched in vain,
Though for grief I cried,

As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain,
In great agony died.
Father, you'll drive me forth never to return,
Doubting me your son--
Father
So I shall, John
John
--but that glory for which I burn
Shall be soon begun.
I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout,
Keep my locks curled.

The fame of my name shall go ringing about
Over half the world.
Father
Horror that your Prince found, John may you find,
Ever and again

Dying before the house in such torture of mind
As you need not
feign.
While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate,
They shall never
know
The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate.
You have heard
me. Go!
SONG: ONE HARD LOOK.
Small gnats that fly
In hot July
And lodge in sleeping ears,
Can
rouse therein
A trumpet's din
With Day-of-Judgement fears.
Small mice at night
Can wake more fright
Than lions at midday.

An urchin small
Torments us all
Who tread his prickly way.
A straw will crack
The camel's back,
To die we need but sip,
So
little sand
As fills the hand
Can stop a steaming ship.

One smile relieves
A heart that grieves
Though deadly sad it be,

And one hard look
Can close the book
That lovers love to see--
TRUE JOHNNY.
Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true
To all those famous vows you've
made,
Will you love me as I love you
Until we both in earth are laid?

Or shall the old wives nod and say
His love was only for a day:

The mood goes by,
His fancies fly,
And Mary's left to sigh.
Mary, alas, you've hit the truth,
And I with grief can but admit

Hot-blooded haste controls my youth,
My idle fancies veer and flit

From flower to flower, from tree to tree,
And when the moment
catches me,
Oh, love goes by
Away I fly
And leave my girl to
sigh.
Could you but now foretell the day,
Johnny, when this sad thing must
be,
When light and gay you'll turn away
And laugh and break the
heart in me?
For like a nut for true love's sake
My empty heart shall
crack and break,
When fancies fly
And love goes by
And Mary's
left to die.
When the sun turns against the clock,
When Avon waters upward
flow,
When eggs are laid by barn-door cock,
When dusty hens do
strut and crow,
When up is down, when left is right,
Oh, then I'll
break the troth I plight,
With careless eye
Away I'll fly
And Mary
here shall die.
THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED.
Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!
The other birds woke all around,

Rising with toot and howl they stirred
Their plumage, broke the
trembling sound,
They craned their necks, they fluttered wings,

"While we are silent no one sings,
And while we sing you hush your
throat,
Or tune your melody to our note."

Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!
The screams and hootings rose
again:
They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred
Their noisy
plumage; small but plain
The lonely hidden singer made
A well of
grief within the glade.
"Whist, silly fool, be off," they shout,
"Or
we'll come pluck your feathers out."
Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!
Slight and small the lovely cry

Came trickling down, but no one heard.
Parrot and cuckoo, crow,
magpie
Jarred horrid notes and the jangling jay
Ripped the fine
threads of song away,
For why should peeping chick aspire
To
challenge their loud woodland choir?
Cried it so sweet that unseen bird?
Lovelier could no music be,

Clearer than water, soft as curd,
Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree.

How sang the others all around?
Piercing and harsh, a maddening
sound,
With Pretty Poll, tuwit-tu-woo,
Peewit, caw caw,
cuckoo-cuckoo.
THE GOD CALLED POETRY.
Now I begin to know at last,
These nights when I sit down to rhyme,

The form and measure of that vast
God we call Poetry, he who
stoops
And leaps me through his paper hoops
A little higher every
time.
Tempts me to think I'll grow a proper
Singing