The Scarlet Gown | Page 2

the blithe bucolic
Who knows nor cribs nor crams,
Who sees the frisky frolic
Of lanky little lambs;
But sour beyond expression
To one in deep
depression
Who sees the closing session
And imminent exams.
He cannot hear the singing
Of birds upon the bents,
Nor watch the wildflowers springing,
Nor smell the April scents.
He gathers grief with grinding,
Foul
food of sorrow finding
In books of dreary binding
And drearier contents.
One hope alone sustains him,
And no more hopes beside,
One trust alone restrains him
From shocking suicide;
He will not play nor palter
With hemlock or
with halter,
He will not fear nor falter,
Whatever chance betide.

He knows examinations
Like all things else have ends,
And then come vast vacations
And visits to his friends,
And youth with pleasure yoking,
And
joyfulness and joking,
And smilingness and smoking,
For grief to make amends.
SWEETHEART
Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know,
More fair to me
Than flowers that make the loveliest show
To tempt the bee.
When other girls, whose faces are,
Beside thy face,
As rushlights to the evening star,
Deny thy grace,
I silent sit and let them speak,
As men of strength
Allow the impotent and weak
To rail at length.
If they should tell me Love is blind,
And so doth miss
The faults
which they are quick to find,
I'd answer this:
Envy is blind; not Love, whose eyes
Are purged and clear
Through gazing on the perfect skies

Of thine, my dear.
MUSIC FOR THE DYING
FROM THE FRENCH OF SULLY PRUDHOMME
Ye who will help me in my dying pain,
Speak not a word: let all your voices cease.
Let me but hear some soft
harmonious strain,
And I shall die at peace.
Music entrances, soothes, and grants relief
From all below by which we are opprest;
I pray you, speak no word
unto my grief,
But lull it into rest.
Tired am I of all words, and tired of aught
That may some falsehood from the ear conceal,
Desiring rather
sounds which ask no thought,
Which I need only feel:
A melody in whose delicious streams
The soul may sink, and pass
without a breath
From fevered fancies into quiet dreams,
From dreaming into death.
FAREWELL TO A SINGER
ON HER MARRIAGE
As those who hear a sweet bird sing,
And love each song it sings the best,
Grieve when they see it taking

wing
And flying to another nest:
We, who have heard your voice so oft,
And loved it more than we can tell,
Our hearts grow sad, our voices
soft,
Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell.
It is not kind to leave us thus;
Yet we forgive you and combine,
Although you now bring grief to
us,
To wish you joy, for auld lang syne.
THE CITY OF GOLF
Would you like to see a city given over,
Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?
If you would, there's little
need to be a rover,
For St. Andrews is the abject city's name.
It is surely quite superfluous to mention,
To a person who has been here half an hour,
That Golf is what
engrosses the attention
Of the people, with an all-absorbing power.
Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;
Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed
a true believer,

Unless he goes at least a round a day.
The city boasts an old and learned college,
Where you'd think the
leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of
knowledge
Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.
All the natives and the residents are patrons
Of this royal, ancient, irritating sport;
All the old men, all the young
men, maids and matrons--
The universal populace, in short.
In the morning, when the feeble light grows stronger,
You may see the players going out in shoals;
And when night forbids
their playing any longer,
They tell you how they did the different holes
Golf, golf, golf--is all the story!
In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,
Till I wish that every golfer
was in glory,
And I pray the sea may overflow the links.
One slender, struggling ray of consolation
Sustains me, very feeble
though it be:
There are two who still escape infatuation,
My friend M'Foozle's one, the other's me.
As I write the words, M'Foozle enters blushing,
With a brassy and an iron in his hand . . .
This blow, so unexpected
and so crushing,

Is more than I am able to withstand.
So now it but remains for me to die, sir.
Stay! There is another course I may pursue--
And perhaps upon the
whole it would be wiser--
I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!
THE SWALLOWS
FROM JEAN PIERRE CLARIS FLORIAN
I love to see the swallows come
At my window twittering,
Bringing from their southern home
News of the approaching spring.
'Last year's nest,' they softly say,
'Last year's love again shall see;
Only faithful lovers may
Tell you of the coming