She felt them coming, but no power So gentle Ellen now no more Could make this sad house cheery; And Mary's melancholy ways Drove Edward wild and weary. Lingering he raised his latch at eve, One evening he took up a book, Then flung it down, and groaning cried, Mary looked up into his face, And nothing to him said; And he burst into tears, and fell Upon his knees in prayer: "Her heart is broke! O God! my grief, It is too great to bear!" 'Twas such a foggy time as makes Old sextons, Sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring Was late uncommonly. And then the hot days, all at once, It happened then ('twas in the bower Perhaps you know the place, and yet No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh But clustered near the chattering brook, Those hollies of themselves a shape A close, round arbour; and it stands Within this arbour, which was still Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, His limbs along the moss, his head With shut-up senses, Edward lay: And he had passed a restless night, The women sat down by his side, "The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, See, dearest Ellen! see! "Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your ee; "A tiny sun, and it has got Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Round that small orb, so blue." And then they argued of those rays, Says this, "they're mostly green;" says that, 66 So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts But soon they heard his hard quick pants, "A Mother, too!" these self-same words His face was drawn back on itself, Both groaned at once, for both knew well He sat upright; and ere the dream "O God, forgive me! (he exclaimed) Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst Into ungentle laughter; And Mary shivered, where she sat, And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To morrow! and To-morrow and To-morrow! "Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm." Ballad of Sir PATRICK SPENCE. I. ELL! if the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon clouds in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, Which better far were mute. For lo! the New-moon winter bright! |