WITH pipe and flute the rustic Pan
Of old made music sweet for man;
And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd, The rolling river slowlier ran.
Ah! would, -ah! would, a little span,
Some air of Arcady could fan
This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute !
But now for gold we plot and plan;
And, from Beersheba unto Dan,
Apollo's self might pass unheard,
Or find the night-jar's note preferred;
Not so it fared, when time began,
With pipe and flute !
Once more we trod the Golden Way, -
That mother you saw yesterday,
And I, whom none can well portray
As young, or slender.
She twirled the flimsy scarf about
Her pretty head, and stepping out,
Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout
Of childish pleasure.
Where we were bound no mortal knows,
For then you plunged in Ireland's woes,
And brought me blankly back to prose
And Gladstone's measure.
Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. My brown old books around me wait, My pipe still holds, unconfiscate,
Pass me the wine. To Those that keep
The bachelor's secluded sleep
Peaceful, inviolate, and deep,
How steadfastly she worked at it!
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest!
How longingly she'd hung on it!
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.
He came at last, the tiny guest, Ere bleak December fled; That rosy nest he never prest . . Her coffin was his bed.
A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY
OUT from the City's dust and roar,
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's "love or pride;"
And so, beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,
You came upon it - suddenly.
How strange! The very grasses' growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbor
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a "6," — a “7,” -
Part of "affliction " and of "Heaven;"
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read-O Irony austere !
"Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear.”
MONSIEUR the Curé down the street
Comes with his kind old face,
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair,
And his green umbrella-case.
I am so old! But sing, Babette !
BABETTE [sings].
One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died
Long,-long ago;
One was the Love I lost
How could she know?
M. VIEUXBOIS [murmuring].
Ah, Paul!... old Paul!... Eulalie too!
And Rose... And O!... the sky so blue!
BABETTE [sings].
One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;
One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:
All of them bent to me,
Bent down and smiled!
Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,
The beechen bowl made glad with wine...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!
And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine ...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine :
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold !
TO A GREEK GIRL
WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum,
Across the years you seem to come,
Across the years with nymph-like head,
And wind-blown brows unfilleted;
A girlish shape that slips the bud
In lines of unspoiled symmetry;
A girlish shape that stirs the blood
With pulse of Spring, Autonoë!
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