English

Frail , wistful guardian of the broom,
— The dwelling's drudge and stay,
Whom destiny gave a single task —
— To keep the dust away! —

Sweep off the floor and polish the chair.
— It will not always last:
Some day, for all your arms can do,
— The dust will hold you fast.

Frail Sleep, that blowest by fresh banks
Of quiet, crystal pools, beside whose brink
The varicolored dreams, like cattle, come to drink,

Cool Sleep, thy reeds, in solemn ranks,
That murmur peace to me by midnight's streams,
At dawn I pluck, and dayward pipe my flock of dreams.

Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin,
Ourhailit with my feeble fantasie,
Like til a leaf that fallis from a tree
Or til a reed ourblawin with the win.
Twa gods guides me: the ane of them is blin,
Yea, and a bairn brocht up in vanitie,
The next a wife ingenrit of the sea,
And lichter nor a dauphin with her fin.

Unhappy is the man for evermair
That tills the sand and sawis in the air;
But twice unhappier is he, I lairn,
That feidis in his hairt a mad desire
And follows on a woman thro the fire,

The foxglove bells, with lolling tongue,
Will not reveal what peals were rung
In Faery, in Faery,
A thousand ages gone.
All the golden clappers hang
As if but now the changes rang;
Only from the mottled throat
Never any echoes float.
Quite forgotten, in the wood,
Pale, crowded steeples rise;
All the time that they have stood
None has heard their melodies,
Deep, deep in wizardry
All the foxglove belfries stand.
Should they startle over the land,
None would know what bells they be.

Four stiff standers,
Four lily landers,
Two lookers, two crookers,
And a wig-wag.

FOUR-PAWS , the kitten from the farm,
Is come to live with Betsey-Jane,
Leaving the stack-yard for the warm
Flower-compassed cottage in the lane,
To wash his idle face and play
Among chintz cushions all the day.

Under the shadow of her hair
He lies, who loves him nor desists
To praise his whiskers and compare
The tabby bracelets on his wrists,—
Omelet at lunch and milk at tea
Suit Betsey-Jane and so fares he.

Happy beneath her golden hand
He purrs contentedly nor hears

[1524ÔÇô1585]

Four hundred urgent springs and ripened summers,
Four hundred winters sharp beneath the moon:
And still your delicate and moulded tune,
Like wind-carved waters, through your land of France
Runs in a singing dance,
Over whose waves the insect pipes and drummers
Die in an afternoon.

Four great walls have hemmed me in.
Four strong, high walls:
Right and wrong,
Shall and shan't.
The mighty pillars tremble when
My conscience palls
And sings its song —
I can, I can't.

If for a moment Samson's strength
Were given me I'd shove
Them away from where I stand;
Free, I know I'd love
To ramble soul and all,
And never dread to strike a wall.

Again, I wonder would that be
Such a happy state for me ...
The going, being, doing, sham —
And never knowing where I am.

Four gallant ships from England came
Freighted deep with fire and flame,
And other things we need not name,
To have a dash at Stonington.

Now safely moor'd, their work begun;
They thought to make the Yankees run,
And have a mighty deal of fun
In stealing sheep at Stonington.

A deacon then popp'd up his head,
And parson Jones's sermon read,
In which the reverend doctor said
That they must fight for Stonington.

A townsman bade them, next, attend
To sundry resolutions penn'd,

Four-and-eighty years are o'er me; great-grandchildren sit before me;
These my locks are white and scanty, and my limbs are weak and worn;
Yet I've been where cannon roaring, firelocks rattling, blood outpouring,
Stirred the souls of patriot soldiers, on the tide of battle borne;
Where they told me I was bolder far than many a comrade older,
Though a stripling at that fight for the right.

All that sultry day in summer beat his sullen march the drummer,
Where the Briton strode the dusty road until the sun went down;