Part 35 (2/2)
For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest Of their homes and their fledgelings--that they loved the best; And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead, Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed, Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came, To the Briton's red ruin--the Saxon's red shame!
Yet they're all gone together! To-day you'll dig up From ”mound” or from ”barrow” some arrow or cup.
Their fame is forgotten--their story is ended-- 'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.
But the birds are unchanged--the ouzel-c.o.c.k sings, Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings; And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky, Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye; While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.
LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON
When I bought you for a song, Years ago--Lord knows how long!-- I was struck--I may be wrong-- By your features, And--a something in your air That I couldn't quite compare To my other plain or fair Fellow creatures.
In your simple, oval frame You were not well known to fame, But to me--'twas all the same-- Whoe'er drew you; For your face I can't forget, Though I oftentimes regret That, somehow, I never yet Saw quite through you.
Yet each morning, when I rise, I go first to greet your eyes; And, in turn, YOU scrutinize My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall, As you hang upon my wall, You're the last thing I recall With contentment.
It is weakness, yet I know That I never turned to go Anywhere, for weal or woe, But I lingered For one parting, thrilling flash From your eyes, to give that dash To the curl of my mustache, That I fingered.
If to some you may seem plain, And when people glance again Where you hang, their lips refrain.
From confession; Yet they turn in stealth aside, And I note, they try to hide How much they are satisfied In expression.
Other faces I have seen; Other forms have come between; Other things I have, I ween, Done and dared for!
But OUR ties they cannot sever, And, though I should say it never, You're the only one I ever Really cared for!
And you'll still be hanging there When we're both the worse for wear, And the silver's on my hair And off your backing; Yet my faith shall never pa.s.s In my dear old shaving-gla.s.s, Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!
HER LAST LETTER
BEING A REPLY TO ”HIS ANSWER”
June 4th! Do you know what that date means?
June 4th! By this air and these pines!
Well,--only you know how I hate scenes,-- These might be my very last lines!
For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember-- If some OTHER things you've forgot-- That you last wrote the 4th of DECEMBER,-- Just six months ago I--from this spot;
From this spot, that you said was ”the fairest For once being held in my thought.”
Now, really I call that the barest Of--well, I won't say what I ought!
For here I am back from my ”riches,”
My ”triumphs,” my ”tours,” and all that; And YOU'RE not to be found in the ditches Or temples of Poverty Flat!
From Paris we went for the season To London, when pa wired, ”Stop.”
Mama says ”his HEALTH” was the reason.
(I've heard that some things took a ”drop.”) But she said if my patience I'd summon I could go back with him to the Flat-- Perhaps I was thinking of some one Who of me--well--was not thinking THAT!
<script>