Fly Leaves | Page 8

are?
Surely no shrill and

clattering crowd should mar
The dim aisle's stillness, where in noon's
mid-glow
Trip fair-hair'd girls to boot-shop or bazaar;
Where, at soft eve,
serenely to and fro
The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the
pastime slow.
And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid
Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood
Before me robed in
broadcloth and brocade
And all the nameless grace of Beadlehood!
I would not smile at ye--if
smile I could
Now as erewhile, ere I had learn'd to sigh:
Ah, no! I know ye beautiful and good,
And evermore will pause as I
pass by,
And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I.
WAITING.
"O come, O come," the mother pray'd
And hush'd her babe: "let me behold
Once more thy stately form
array'd
Like autumn woods in green and gold!
"I see thy brethren come and go;
Thy peers in stature, and in hue
Thy rivals. Same like monarchs glow
With richest purple: some are blue
"As skies that tempt the swallow back;
Or red as, seen o'er wintry seas,
The star of storm; or barr'd with
black

And yellow, like the April bees.
"Come they and go! I heed not, I.
Yet others hail their advent, cling
All trustful to their side, and fly
Safe in their gentle piloting
"To happy homes on heath or hill,
By park or river. Still I wait
And peer into the darkness: still
Thou com'st not--I am desolate.
"Hush! hark! I see a towering form!
From the dim distance slowly roll'd
It rocks like lilies in a storm,
And O, its hues are green and gold:
"It comes, it comes! Ah rest is sweet,
And there is rest, my babe, for us!"
She ceased, as at her very feet
Stopp'd the St. John's Wood omnibus.
PLAY.
Play, play, while as yet it is day:
While the sweet sunlight is warm on
the brae!
Hark to the lark singing lay upon lay,
While the brown
squirrel eats nuts on the spray
And in the apple-leaves chatters the jay!

Play, play, even as they!
What though the cowslips ye pluck will
decay,
What though the grass will be presently hay?
What though
the noise that ye make should dismay
Old Mrs. Clutterbuck over the
way?
Play, play, for your locks will grow gray;
Even the marbles ye
sport with are clay.

Play, ay in the crowded highway:
Was it not made for you? Yea, my
lad, yea.
True that the babes you were bid to convey
Home may fall
out or be stolen or stray;
True that the tip-cat you toss about may

Strike an old gentleman, cause him to sway,
Stumble, and p'raps be
run o'er by a dray:
Still why delay? Play, my son, play!
Barclay and
Perkins, not you, have to pay.
Play, play, your sonatas in A,
Heedless of what your next neighbour
may say!
Dance and be gay as a faun or a fay,
Sing like the lad in
the boat on the bay;
Sing, play--if your neighbours inveigh
Feebly
against you, they're lunatics, eh?
Bang, twang, clatter and clang,

Strum, thrum, upon fiddle and drum;
Neigh, bray, simply obey
All
your sweet impulses, stop not or stay!
Rattle the "bones," hit a
tinbottom'd tray
Hard with the fireshovel, hammer away!
Is not
your neighbour your natural prey?
Should he confound you, it's only
in play.
LOVE.
Canst thou love me, lady?
I've not learn'd to woo:
Thou art on the shady
Side of sixty too.
Still I love thee dearly!
Thou hast lands and pelf:
But I love thee merely
Merely for thyself.
Wilt thou love me, fairest?
Though thou art not fair;
And I think thou wearest
Someone-else's hair.
Thou could'st love, though, dearly:
And, as I am told,
Thou art very nearly

Worth thy weight, in gold.
Dost thou love me, sweet one?
Tell me that thou dost!
Women fairly beat one,
But I think thou must.
Thou art loved so dearly:
I am plain, but then
Thou (to speak sincerely)
Art as plain again.
Love me, bashful fairy!
I've an empty purse:
And I've "moods," which vary;
Mostly for the worse.
Still, I love thee dearly:
Though I make (I feel)
Love a little queerly,
I'm as true as steel.
Love me, swear to love me
(As, you know, they do)
By yon heaven above me
And its changeless blue.
Love me, lady, dearly,
If you'll be so good;
Though I don't see clearly
On what ground you should.
Love me--ah or love me
Not, but be my bride!
Do not simply shove me
(So to speak) aside!
P'raps it would be dearly

Purchased at the price;
But a hundred yearly
Would be very nice.
THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION.
'Tis but a box, of modest deal;
Directed to no matter where:
Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal -

Yes, I am blubbering like a seal;
For on it is this mute appeal,
"With care."
I am a stern cold man, and range
Apart: but those vague words "With care"
Wake yearnings in me
sweet as strange:
Drawn from my moral Moated Grange,
I feel I
rather like the change
Of air.
Hast thou ne'er seen rough