Country Sentiment | Page 8

a lover,

Though but a worm."
POT AND KETTLE.
Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot.
A tale of
burning love between a kettle and a pot.
The pot was stalwart iron
and the kettle trusty tin,
And though their sides were black with
smoke they bubbled love within.
Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth,
I know a
dismal story of a candle and a moth.
For while your pot is boiling and
while your kettle sings
My moth makes love to candle flame and
burns away his wings.
Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame,
But here are
two more lovers, unto no damage came.
There was a cuckoo loved a

clock and found her always true. For every hour they told their hearts,
"Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot, So boils my
love within me till my breast is glowing hot.
As the moth died for the
candle, so could I die for you.
And my fond heart beats time with
yours and cries, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"
GHOST RADDLED.
"Come, surly fellow, come! A song!"
What, madmen? Sing to you?

Choose from the clouded tales of wrong
And terror I bring to you.
Of a night so torn with cries,
Honest men sleeping
Start awake with
glaring eyes,
Bone-chilled, flesh creeping.
Of spirits in the web hung room
Up above the stable,
Groans,
knockings in the gloom,
The dancing table.
Of demons in the dry well
That cheep and mutter,
Clanging of an
unseen bell,
Blood choking the gutter.
Of lust frightful, past belief,
Lurking unforgotten,
Unrestrainable
endless grief
From breasts long rotten.
A song? What laughter or what song
Can this house remember?
Do
flowers and butterflies belong
To a blind December?
NEGLECTFUL EDWARD.
Nancy
"Edward back from the Indian Sea,
What have you brought for
Nancy?"
Edward

"A rope of pearls and a gold earring,
And a bird of the East that will
not sing.
A carven tooth, a box with a key--"
Nancy
"God be praised you are back," says she,
"Have you nothing more for
your Nancy?"
Edward
"Long as I sailed the Indian Sea
I gathered all for your fancy:
Toys
and silk and jewels I bring,
And a bird of the East that will not sing:

What more can you want, dear girl, from me?"
Nancy
"God be praised you are back," said she,
"Have you nothing better for
Nancy?"
Edward
"Safe and home from the Indian Sea,
And nothing to take your
fancy?"
Nancy
"You can keep your pearls and your gold earring,
And your bird of
the East that will not sing,
But, Ned, have you nothing more for me

Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she,
"Have you nothing better
for Nancy?"
THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN.
Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown:
Here's black velvet, all
the rage, for Dick's birthday coat. Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the
way down,
Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note.

Mary, here I've bought you a green gingham shade
And a silk purse
brocaded with roses gold and blue,
You'll learn to hold them proudly
like colours on parade.
No banker's wife in all the town half so grand
as you.
I've bought for young Diccon a long walking-stick,
Yellow gloves,
well tanned, at Woodstock village made.
I'll teach you to flourish 'em
and show your name is DICK,
Strutting by your sister's side with the
same parade.
On Sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer:
Then up the
street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see Of all the honours
paid around, how small is Virtue's share. How large the share of Vulgar
Pride in peacock finery.
THUNDER AT NIGHT.
Restless and hot two children lay
Plagued with uneasy dreams,

Each wandered lonely through false day
A twilight torn with screams.
True to the bed-time story, Ben
Pursued his wounded bear,
Ann
dreamed of chattering monkey men,
Of snakes twined in her hair...
Now high aloft above the town
The thick clouds gather and break,

A flash, a roar, and rain drives down:
Aghast the young things wake.
Trembling for what their terror was,
Surprised by instant doom,

With lightning in the looking glass,
Thunder that rocks the room.
The monkeys' paws patter again,
Snakes hiss and flash their eyes:

The bear roars out in hideous pain:
Ann prays: her brother cries.
They cannot guess, could not be told
How soon comes careless day,

With birds and dandelion gold,
Wet grass, cool scents of May.
TO E.M.--A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME.

Strawberries that in gardens grow
Are plump and juicy fine,
But
sweeter far as wise men know
Spring from the woodland vine.
No need for bowl or silver spoon,
Sugar or spice or cream,
Has the
wild berry plucked in June
Beside the trickling stream.
One such to melt at the tongue's root,
Confounding taste with scent,

Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
Which points my argument.
May sudden justice overtake
And snap the froward pen,
That old
and palsied poets shake
Against the minds of men.
Blasphemers trusting to hold caught
In far-flung webs of ink,
The
utmost ends of human thought
Till nothing's left to think.