English

Summer is dying, woven in fine gold,
Couched on a purple bed
Of falling garden leaves and twilight clouds
That lave their hearts in red.

The garden is deserted, save where a youth
Saunters, or a maiden walks,
Casting an eye and a sigh after the flight
Of the last and lingering storks.

The heart is orphaned. — Soon a rainy day
Will softly tap the pane.
Look to your boots; patch up your coat. Go, fetch
The potatoes in again.

OF KIDDERMINSTER'S POETRY .

Thy verses, friend! are Kidderminster stuff,
And I must own you 've measured out enough.

A CULINARY ECLOGUE .

Night's sable clouds had half the globe o'erspread,
And silence reign'd, and folks were gone to bed;
When love, which gentle sleep can ne'er inspire,
Had seated Damon by the kitchen fire.

Pensive he lay, extended on the ground,
The little Lares kept their vigils round;
The fawning cats compassionate his case,
And purr around, and gently lick his face:

To all his plaints the sleeping curs reply,
And with hoarse snorings imitate a sigh:

TO THE MEMORY OF AN AGREEABLE LADY, BURIED IN MARRIAGE TO A PERSON UNDESERVING HER .

'Twas always held, and ever will,
By sage mankind, discreeter
To anticipate a lesser ill
Than undergo a greater.

When mortals dread diseases, pain,
And languishing conditions,
Who don't the lesser ills sustain
Of physic — and physicians?

Rather than lose his whole estate,
He that but little wise is,

When Beauty mourns, by Fate's injurious doom,
Hid from the cheerful glance of human eye,
When Nature's pride inglorious waits the tomb,
Hard is that heart which checks the rising sigh.

Fair Eleonora! would no gallant mind,
The cause of Love, the cause of Justice, own?
Matchless thy charms, and was no life resign'd
To see them sparkle from their native throne?

Or had fair Freedom's hand unveil'd thy charms,
Well might such brows the regal gem resign;
Thy radiant mien might scorn the guilt of arms,

God defends th' oppress'd from harm,
Throws around the slave his arm;
Despots may his will oppose,
But, behold! his anger glows!

See! his awful arm he bares,
Bends his bow, his spear prepares;
From his magazines of wrath,
Pours his fury on their path.

Where's the despot's boasting now?
Fill'd with pangs, behold him bow!
What's the fruit of all his care?
Worthless dust and empty air!

Where the treach'rous pit he made,
For himself a snare he laid;
Where destruction he intends,

Horses go down the dingy lane,
But never a horse comes up again.
The greasy yard where the red hides lie
Marks the place where the horses die.

Wheat was sinking year by year,
I bought things cheap, I sold them dear;
Rent was heavy and taxes high,
And a weary-hearted man was I.

In Lindisfaire I walked my grounds,
I hadn't the heart to ride to hounds,
And as I walked in black despair,
I saw my old bay hunter there.

He tried to nuzzle against my cheek,
He looked the grief he could not speak,

There is a better thing, dear heart,
Than youthful flush or girlish grace.
There is the faith that never fails,
The courage in the danger place,
The duty seen, and duty done,
The heart that yearns for all in need,
The lady soul which could not stoop
To selfish thought or lowly deed.
All that we ever dreamed, dear wife,
Seems drab and common by the truth,
The sweet sad mellow things of life
Are more than golden dreams of youth.

The Doctor came at half-past one,
Little Billy saw him from the window.
The Doctor he was short and fat,
He hid a trumpet in his hat,
And spoke with his ear. You may all doubt that,
But Little Billy saw it from the window.

The Doctor left at half-past four,
Little Billy saw him from the window.
The Doctor's head was white and bare,
Like an ostrich egg in a nest of hair,
The marble bounced right up in the air
When little Billy dropped it from the window.

The Doctor came with a small black bag,

(D IED J ULY 1921)

No truer, kinder soul
Was ever sped than thine.
You lived without a growl,
You died without a whine.