Volume Iii Part 10 (2/2)

What wilt thou exchange for it?'

”And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time a glove; But the third time--I may bend From my pride, and answer--'Pardon, If he comes to take my love.'

”Then the young foot-page will run-- Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: 'I am a duke's eldest son!

Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but _thee_!'

”He will kiss me on the mouth Then; and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds.”

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe-- And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the _two_.

Pus.h.i.+ng through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads, Past the boughs she stoops, and stops.

Lo, the wild swan had deserted-- And a rat had gnawed the reeds!

Ellie went home sad and slow.

If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth, I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan's nest among the reeds.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

TELLING THE BEES.

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had pa.s.sed,-- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well sweep near.

I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her windowpane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,-- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the ch.o.r.e-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, ”My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away.”

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