Classic Poem

Bright, bright shone the morning, when breakfast was done;
But Sally, the maid, look'd with fear
On Susan's broad face, that grew black in the sun —
A sign that a tempest was near.
The thrush sang without, where the gorse and the broom
Wore their gold, near the overshot mill;
And the birch was in bud, and the larch was in bloom,
Beside the old farm on the hill;
But, within, nought was heard save the sad undergrowl
Of Susan, that lady of grief,
While John turn'd his back on the wife of his soul,
Pretending to read, and be deaf;
Yet watching the storm, which he well knew would come,
And lifting his left ear in pain,
As he chuck'd the crack'd seal, with his finger and thumb,
On the ring of his copper watch-chain;
Or fast in his book turn'd the pages, unread;
Or twisted its bit of red tape;
Or pull'd to and fro the brown wig on his head,
With its tail doubled up in his cape,
Slow rising, at length — like Sir Graham in place,
Or a broad-bottom'd Image of Fate;
She stood — like Resolve, sworn to steal a watch-case,
Or like a thick " pillar of state; "
But soon on the floor stump'd her short flabby legs.
Her broad face seem'd broader to grow,
And then, as she spoke, she revolv'd on her pegs,
Like a tub on one end turning slow.