Part 14 (1/2)
Far worthier men had vainly sought To win her for herself alone; What potent spell could Love have wrought To draw her to a tactless drone?
A palace she might well have graced.
And led its functions like a queen; Instead, her life has run to waste, The wraith of what it might have been.
For boorishness hath brought its blight; Her rare accomplishments are marred, And every path, with promise bright, By stupid tyranny is barred.
Yet still she bravely moves through life, Ignoring her pathetic fall;-- A loveless, broken-hearted wife; Alas, the pity of it all!
IN A MODERN CITY
Dreary fog and drizzling sleet, And a lamp-lit track of slime; Phantoms dim in the misty street, Vanis.h.i.+ng, streaked with grime; Overhead in a spurious night, Formed by the vapors dun, Wraith-like globes of haloed light, Mocking the hidden sun;--
Children, shod in sodden shoes, (That is a sight that hurts;) Women, furrowing filthy ooze In thin, bedraggled skirts; Horses, lashed with cruel zest, Ploughing the fumid fog; Hark! ... a car, with no arrest, Killing a howling dog;--
Clanging trams, with haggard men Forcing their way within,-- Some compressed in a steaming-pen, Others soaked to the skin; Smoke and soot in the murky sky, Death in the tainted air, Each aware, were he to die, None in the crowd would care;--
Here and there a carriage fine, Cleaving the reeking ma.s.s; Scowling faces, ranged in line, Watching the rich man pa.s.s; Envy's gleam in many an eye, Hate in many a threat; Why should he be warm and dry, And they be cold and wet?
Pictures these of the ”Pa.s.sing Show,”
Scenes in a world gone wrong, Wretched weaklings, born to woe, Crushed by the brutal strong!
Breaking hearts that crave release, Slaves to a ceaseless strife! ...
I will go back to sylvan peace And a sight of the Source of Life.
MY BORES
I take their hands with placid smile And words which social rules enforce, Though sadly conscious all the while Of something very like remorse, Because beneath the mask I wear I really wish they were not there.
Their visits I at heart resent; The half-read volume haunts my thought; The urgent note remains unsent; The verse, unfinished, comes to naught; And all because, on some pretence, They waste their time at my expense.
Yet no grim misanthrope am I, Who fears, distrusts, and hates his race; I merely wish them to pa.s.s by, And seek some other lounging-place; For, frankly, I should love them more A little further from my door.
In vain I make no answering calls; They blandly smile and come again!
Nay, even bring within my walls More curious strangers in their train, ”Who wished so much your home to see!”
Why do they never think of me?
The few I want I can invite; Hence why should others thus intrude?
How dare they give themselves the right, Unasked, to spoil my solitude?
And why presume I care to know More triflers in their world of show?
Their idle life, on pleasure bent, Their mania for some silly game, Their hours in stupid gossip spent,-- Would give me self-contempt and shame; Between us is no common ground On which a comrades.h.i.+p to found.
A word or two upon the street Suffice me with the most of men; Beyond a greeting, when we meet.