Part 14 (1/2)

'Oh! there is one path through the forest so green, Where thou and I only, my palfrey, have been: We traversed it oft, when I rode to her bower To tell my love tale through the rift of the tower.

'Thou know'st not my words, but thy instinct is good: By the road to the church lies the path through the wood: Thy instinct is good, and her love is as true: Thou wilt see thy way homeward: dear palfrey, adieu.'

They feasted full late and full early they rose, And church-ward they rode more than half in a doze: The steed in an instant broke off from the throng, And pierced the green path, which he bounded along.

In vain was pursuit, though some followed pell-mell: Through bramble and thicket they floundered and fell.

On the backs of their coursers some dozed as before, And missed not the bride till they reached the church door.

The knight from his keep on the forest-bound gazed: The drawbridge was down, the portcullis was raised: And true to his hope came the palfrey amain, With his only loved lady, who checked not the rein.

The drawbridge went up: the portcullis went down; The chaplain was ready with bell, book, and gown: The wreck of the bride-train arrived at the gate, The bride showed the ring, and they muttered 'Too late!'

'Not too late for a feast, though too late for a fray; What's done can't be undone: make peace while you may': So spake the young knight, and the old ones complied; And quaffed a deep health to the bridegroom and bride.

Mr. Falconer had listened to the ballad with evident pleasure. He turned to resume his place on the sofa, but finding it preoccupied by the doctor, he put on a look of disappointment, which seemed to the doctor exceedingly comic.

'Surely,' thought the doctor, 'he is not in love with the old maid.'

Miss Gryll gave up her place to a young lady, who in her turn sang a ballad of a different character.

LOVE AND AGE

I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-b.a.l.l.s throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more.

Through groves and meads, o'er gra.s.s and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago.

You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly, How dearly words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.

Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year.

And many a splendid circle, found you The centre of its glittering sphere.

I saw you then, first vows forsaking, On rank and wealth your hand bestow; Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,-- But that was forty years ago.

And I lived on, to wed another; No cause she gave me to repine; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine.

My own young flock, in fair progression Made up a pleasant Christmas row: My joy in them was past expression,-- But that was thirty years ago.

You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fas.h.i.+on's brightest blaze; My earthly lot was far more homely; But I too had my festal days.

No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearthstone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened,-- But that was twenty years ago.

Time pa.s.sed. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire gray; One pet of four years old I've carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play.

In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, She fills her basket's ample measure,-- And that is not ten years ago.

But though first love's impa.s.sioned blindness Has pa.s.sed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness, And shall do, till our last good-night.

The ever-rolling silent hours Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

_Miss Ilex._ That is a melancholy song. But of how many first loves is it the true tale! And how many are far less happy!

_The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ It is simple, and well sung, with a distinctness of articulation not often heard.