Volume Ii Part 47 (2/2)

Here Laura goes, my own delight, And Colin's love, the madcap Jane, And half a score of G.o.ddesses Trip over daisies in the plain: Already now they loose their hair And peep from out the tangled gold, Or speed the flying foot to reach The brook that's only summer-cold; The lovely locks stream out behind The shepherdesses on the wing, And Laura's is the wealth I love, And Laura's is the gold I sing.

A-row upon the bank they pant, And all unlace the country shoe; Their fingers tug the garter-knots To loose the hose of varied hue.

The flas.h.i.+ng knee at last appears, The lower curves of youth and grace, Whereat the girls intently scan The mazy thickets of the place.

But who's to see except the thrush Upon the wild crab-apple tree?

Within his branchy haunt he sits-- A very Peeping Tom is he!

Now music bubbles in his throat, And now he pipes the scene in song-- The virgins slipping from their robes, The cheated stockings lean and long, The swift-descending petticoat, The b.r.e.a.s.t.s that heave because they ran, The rounded arms, the brilliant limbs, The pretty necklaces of tan.

Did ever amorous G.o.d in Greece, In search of some young mouth to kiss, By any river chance upon A sylvan scene as bright as this?

But though each maid is pure and fair, For one alone my heart I bring, And Laura's is the shape I love, And Laura's is the snow I sing.

And now upon the brook's green brink, A milk-white bevy, lo, they stand, Half shy, half frightened, reaching back The beauty of a poising hand!

How musical their little screams When ripples kiss their shrinking feet!

And then the brook embraces all Till gold and white and water meet!

Within the streamlet's soft cool arms Delight and love and gracefulness Sport till a flock of tiny waves Swamps all the beds of floating cress; And on his s.h.i.+ning face are seen Great yellow lilies drifting down Beyond the ringing apple-tree, Beyond the empty homespun gown.

Did ever Orpheus with his lute, When making melody of old, E'er find a stream in Attica So ripely full of pink and gold?

At last they climb the sloping bank And shake upon the thirsty soil A treasury of diamond-drops Not gained by aught of grimy toil.

Again the garters clasp the hose, Again the velvet knee is hid, Again the breathless babble tells What Colin said, what Colin did.

In grace upon the gra.s.s they lie And spread their tresses to the sun, And rival, musical as they, The blackbird's alto shake and run.

Did ever Love, on hunting bent, Come idly humming through the hay, And, to his sudden joyfulness, Find fairer game at close of day?

Though every maid's a lily-rose, And meet to sway a sceptred king, Yet Laura's is the face I love, And Laura's are the lips I sing.

Norman Gale [1862-

GOOD-NIGHT

Good-night. Good-night. Ah, good the night That wraps thee in its silver light.

Good-night. No night is good for me That does not hold a thought of thee.

Good-night.

Good-night. Be every night as sweet As that which made our love complete, Till that last night when death shall be One brief ”Good-night,” for thee and me.

Good-night.

S. Weir Mitch.e.l.l [1829-1914]

THE MYSTIC

By seven vineyards on one hill We walked. The native wine In cl.u.s.ters grew beside us two, For your lips and for mine,

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