Harry | Page 9

from
above,
Balls white and crimson disport on green baize,
That capital
game which gentlemen love,
Where Harry conquers whenever he
plays.
Billiards require grace, agility, skill;
No one without them
can hope to excel;
But Harry never did anything ill
That it is manly
and right to do well.
In my pretty turn-out with ponies gray,
At a

rattling pace to the club I come,
And feel like a queen triumphantly
gay,
As I drive my conquering Hero home.
I like him to play; I like him to win;
I like to wait by the Ocean
expanse,
To watch its wild waves come careering in,
In regular
order unknown to chance.
I like the scent of the weeds that they bear,
And their rolling sound on
the pebbly beach;
I like the touch of the salt-flavour'd air;
There is
beauty, pleasure, and health in each.
A little hotel in Bellhaven stands,
Where dinners are serv'd
remarkably well,
And sometimes Harry slips out of my hands
And
dines with Jack at this little hotel.
I'm not very fond of the place, I
own;
Ought I to mind it, if Harry's amused?
But I feel so lonely
when I'm alone,
And sometimes I feel a little ill-used.
'Tis seldom my husband deserts me thus,
He is always home ere the
clock strikes ten;
So I won't be foolish and make a fuss,
But try to
remember that men are men.
Sitting and waiting for Harry alone,
Watching the minutes, and
wanting him back--
Why are you absent, my Harry, my own?
Am
not I nicer than billiards and Jack?
Traitress to ask such a question! for shame!
Thou art, thou knowest,
beginning and end!
His whole life is thine--he is not to blame!
May
not thy husband go out with a friend?
Thou art the false one, and he is the true--
Fretful and idle, unworthy
thy king!
Hast thou not anything useful to do,
Thou
good-for-nothing and cross little thing?
Scolding myself, I spring up from my chair,
Calling out loud that the
time is not long;
March down the room with a resolute air,
Seize

my guitar, and burst out into song!
Poor little girl, sitting singing alone,
Pretty guitar round a slender
neck hung,
Smiles on thy lips, but a sad little moan,
Deep in a heart
that is foolish and young.
SONG.
To one whose footsteps fall
Upon a mountain's height,
Earth must
seem very small,
And heaven infinite.
Then why do misty tears
Conceal each lofty crest,
If earth so far
appears,
So near the land of rest?
Hush! for the mists withdraw
The Hidden shines in bliss;
Who in a
valley saw
A heaven-light like this?
I think when earth can speak
(She will one of these days),
That
every mountain-peak
Will give a shout of praise.
I did not care for the song that I sang;
I was not thinking of mountains
at all;
Tiresome and strange in mine ears the words rang--
'Heaven
is infinite, earth is so small'--
Rang in that eerie monotonous way

Words sometimes will, when we don't will one bit.
Which proves
they're alive--It is hard in the day,
But in the night who can battle
with it?
And a little sob rose up in my throat--
'Harry, Harry, Harry,'
thrill'd through the sob;
I touch'd the guitar, and its answering note

Came unexpected, and made my heart throb.
SONG.
It was once upon a time,
Ere the roses bud and blow,
Underneath
the scented lime,
Long ago, ah, long ago!
Is it I that was so fair,

When the sun is slanting low,
With a lily in my hair,
Ah, so very
long ago?

Was my heart as light as this
Was the lily white as snow?
What a
happy hour it is,
Long ago, ah, long ago?
Then the lily bloom'd to
save,
Ere a tear had learn'd to flow
Now it lies upon a grave,
Ah,
so very long ago!
While I sat singing, steps came on the path,
Outside the
window--what marvel is this?
Steady and solemn, they make my
heart wrath,
Steps come towards me, and they are not his!
Steps in
the night time pass up to my door;
Then comes a knocking might
waken the dead:
Instead of one Harry there must be four,
Only not
one has his light springy tread.
My old nurse's son to sea ran away--
At a 'Norwester,' or gale from
the South,
I've heard the poor woman tremblingly say
The sound
'brought her heart up into her mouth!'
I, little prattler, crouched down at her feet,
Would stop aghast in my
innocent play,
Wondering, will she be able to eat,
Supposing her
heart in her mouth shall stay?
Strange are our minds and their workings, I'm sure
Studying them
might drive Solomon wild:
At the loud knocking, I ran to the door

With a sudden thought of that nurse and child.
I saw her rocking herself in her chair,
While the mad wind blew
'neath the stormy sky;
I saw the little child watching her there,
And
knew, with a pang, that the child was I.
(Strange are the pangs, that, when life is most fair,
With not a regret
to shadow the scene,
Seize on the heart with a sudden despair,
From
a passing mem'ry of what has been.)
And while to the door I ran with a start,
Frighten'd