The Scarlet Gown | Page 3

glee.'
When the first fell touch of frost
Strips the wood of faded leaves,
Calling all their winged host,
The swallows meet above the eaves
'Come away, away,' they cry,

'Winter's snow is hastening;
True hearts winter comes not nigh,
They are ever in the spring.'
If by some unhappy fate,
Victim of a cruel mind,
One is parted from her mate
And within a cage confined,
Swiftly will the swallow die,

Pining for her lover's bower,
And her lover watching nigh
Dies beside her in an hour.
AFTER MANY DAYS
The mist hangs round the College tower,
The ghostly street
Is silent at this midnight hour,
Save for my feet.
With none to see, with none to hear,
Downward I go
To where, beside the rugged pier,
The sea sings low.
It sings a tune well loved and known
In days gone by,
When often here, and not alone,
I watched the sky.
That was a barren time at best,
Its fruits were few;
But fruits and
flowers had keener zest
And fresher hue.
Life has not since been wholly vain,
And now I bear
Of wisdom plucked from joy and pain
Some slender share.
But, howsoever rich the store,
I'd lay it down,
To feel upon my back once more

The old red gown.
HORACE'S PHILOSOPHY
What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me,
Ask not:
'tis forbidden knowledge. Be content, Leuconoe.
Let alone the
fortune-tellers. How much better to endure
Whatsoever shall betide
us--even though we be not sure
Whether Jove grants other winters,
whether this our last shall be That upon the rocks opposing dashes now
the Tuscan sea.
Be thou wise, and strain thy wines, and mindful of
life's brevity Stint thy hopes. The envious moments, even while we
speak, have flown; Trusting nothing to the future, seize the day that is
our own.
ADVENTURE OF A POET
As I was walking down the street
A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
A man I know.
His name is Alexander Bell,
His home, Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
As he knows me.
He gave my hand a hearty shake,
Discussed the weather,
And then proposed that we should take
A stroll together.
Down College Street we took our way,
And there we met
The
beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
That arch coquette,
Who stole last spring my heart away

And has it yet.
That smile with which my bow she greets,
Would it were fonder!
Or else less fond--since she its sweets
On all must squander.
Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
I sadly ponder,
And after her, as she retreats,
My thoughts will wander.
And so I listened with an air
Of inattention,
While Bell described a folding-chair
Of his invention.
And when we reached the Swilcan Burn,
'It looks like rain,'
Said I,
'and we had better turn.'
'Twas all in vain,
For Bell was weather-wise, and knew
The signs aerial;
He bade me note the strip of blue
Above the Imperial,
Also another patch of sky,
South-west by south,
Which meant that we might journey dry
To Eden's mouth.
He was a man with information
On many topics:
He talked about the exploration

Of Poles and Tropics,
The scene in Parliament last night,
Sir William's letter;
'And do you
like the electric light,
Or gas-lamps better?'
The strike among the dust-heap pickers
He said was over;
And had I read about the liquors
Just seized at Dover?
Or the unhappy printer lad
At Rothesay drowned?
Or the Italian ironclad
That ran aground?
He told me stories (lately come)
Of good society,
Some slightly tinged with truth, and some
With impropriety.
He spoke of duelling in France,
Then lightly glanced at
Mrs.
Mackenzie's monster dance,
Which he had danced at.
So he ran on, till by-and-by
A silence came,
For which I greatly fear that I
Was most to blame.
Then neither of us spoke a word
For quite a minute,
When presently a thought occurred

With promise in it.
'How did you like the Shakespeare play
The students read?'
By this, the Eden like a bay
Before us spread.
Near Eden many softer plots
Of sand there be;
Our feet, like
Pharaoh's chariots,
Drave heavily.
And ere an answer I could frame,
He said that Irving
Of his extraordinary fame
Was undeserving,
And for his part he thought more highly
Of Ellen Terry;
Although he knew a girl named Riley
At Broughty Ferry,
Who might be, if she only chose,
As great a star.
She had a part in the tableaux
At the bazaar.
If I had said but little yet,
I now said less,
And smoked a
home-made cigarette
In mute distress.
The smoke into his face was blown
By the wind's action,
And this afforded me, I own,

Some satisfaction;
But still his tongue received no check
Till, coming home,
We stood beside the ancient wreck
And watched the foam
Wash in among the timbers, now
Sunk deep in sand,
Though I can well remember how
I used to stand
On windy days and hold my hat,
And idly turn
To