Outshines the light gazelle's,
And hid beneath its brilliancy,
A pensive shadow dwells.
But I've seen it illumed with a mischievous light,
Which the sparkles displayed in the meteor's flight
Cannot meet, as her laughter reverberates round,
And merrily echo responds to the sound.
I know a maid whose accents mild,
And words of sober sense,
Declare her woman more than child,
Yet mark her innocence.
But I've heard her repeating the quip or the joke,
While merriment shone in her eyes as she spoke,
As, with skill that is seldom excelled on the stage,
She worthily mimicked the actor or sage.
I know a maid, a loving maid,
Whose quiet, gentle ways,
In look, in voice, in act displayed,
Must bring her love and praise.
But I know that when nimbly she's tripping the dance,
When her eyes sparkle bright with a mischievous glance,
When her sallies of innocent wit shall outpour,
She will capture the hearts that were callous before.
TO ETHEL.
So you think you will be a Scotch lassie;
The braw Hieland lad in a kilt
Has taken your fancy, dear, has he?
And you, too, would be clad in a "tilt."
Well, not one will gainsay you nor blame you,
For your wishes are ever fulfilt;
And how proudly your father will claim you,
When arrayed in a tartan and "tilt"!
And your mother will certainly further
The hopes that her Ethel has built;
You have only to ask to ensure their
Fulfilment concerning the "tilt."
And I--(Oh! I know I don't count, dear,
And for speaking acknowledge my guilt,
For my wishes to nothing amount, dear,)
I would rather you hadn't a "tilt."
For although thou wilt take us by storm, dear,
Looking sweet, as thou certainly wilt,
Yet, you know, it is very bad form, dear,
And not English to wish for a "tilt."
And I thought, (but of course was mistaken,
For my hopes lie around me all spilt),
That my Ethel would never awaken
To sigh for a Hielander's "tilt."
None the less will I try to be glad then,
Nor let courtesy play me the jilt;
Though I know that my heart will be sad when
Little Ethel is wearing her "tilt".
DEAR LITTLE ETHEL.
Dear little Ethel,
Child that I love,
Come, as an angel,
Down from above.
Golden-rayed tresses,
Shining and bright,
Inviting caresses,
Mirroring light.
Eyes blue and tender,
Beaming with joy.
Who would offend her?
Who would annoy?
Ripple thy laughter!
Bubble thy glee!
Loud will the rafter
Echo to thee.
Clinging to mother,
Set on her knee;
She has no other
Dearer than thee.
Slave thou hast bound her;
Nestles thine arm,
Twining around her,
Telling thy charm.
Innocent speeches
Silencing strife;
Hallowed each is:
Pearls of a life.
Come, come and kiss me,
Child of my heart.
Oh! I would miss thee
Were we to part.
God in His mercy
Shelter my dove,
Dear little Ethel,
Child that I love.
TO D. R. P.
(_In imitation of A. Lindsay Gordon._)
Well, Douglas, I'm sorry you've got to be homing,
Though I grant it's unwise to continue your roaming,
But the evening's to spare ere you drop me astern,
So come up to my room and indulge in a yarn.
Here's tobacco in plenty--"Gold Flake," very good;
No "Birdseye," or "Honeydew," that's understood.
But this isn't bad, though a stranger to you--
(Here is Dick: Bring up ginger and whiskey for two).
And now take a seat, there are two, as you see,
The red rocker for you and the other for me.
Don't demur, for no guests will arrive, I am sure;
If they do, why there's room on the bed or the floor.
So you're going to England again. Well, your visit
Has nigh made me homesick--no miracle, is it?
I was born there, and there I was nurtured and bred,
And I love the old land. (There's a match overhead).
It is four years ago, more than that, since I started
Away from my home. Well, I'm not chicken-hearted,
But your accent, your manner, the things you have said,
Have just taken me back to the life I once led.
And it seems there's a canker that Time will not heal,
Though I certainly thought that I never should feel
Its soreness again. I had settled down here,
Thinking happiness mine, till your lordship drew near.
And now, with your talk of the land of my birth,
All those sad recollections you rudely unearth.
Don't apologise, man, for I'm glad it is so,
There's a joy in the grief that I wouldn't forego.
There's a joy in remembering all that has been,
And recalling the pleasures that once I have seen;
And if bitterness follows, I'm ready to suffer,
For this morsel is sweet though the next may be tougher.
Let the fool in his folly anticipate sorrow,
I, for one, will refuse to take thought for the morrow.
There is joy in our life if we will but enjoy it;
But the most of us do what we can to destroy it.
For we fume and we worry and fret ourselves thin
By regret for what might be or what might have been;
And the blessings of life we incessantly miss
By ignoring entirely the pleasure that is.
You have taught me a lesson; though little you thought
Or intended to do it, the lesson is taught.
By your actions, not words, have I learned to be wise,
To embrace every joy, every sorrow despise.
Did I say that I _thought_ there was happiness here?
I was wrong, for I _know_ it; 'tis perfectly clear.
If you'll listen a bit, take your pipe up again
And continue your smoke, I will try to explain.
To begin with, the land I've adopted as mine
Has a place in my heart, a peculiar shrine.
And my love for the country is true and sincere;
If I can't live in England I wish to live here.
Then, I freely confess, if my way has been hard,
And my path somewhat rough, still I have my reward.
Let my rung on life's ladder be low as it may,
I have fought single-handed each step of the way.
It is well to have fortune, mayhap it is well
In the tents of the noble and titled to dwell;
But the man who has builded his home with his hand
Is the happiest man in the happiest land.
Let milord and milady inherit their wealth,
I am legatee only of vigor and health;
Every cent that I own has been earned by the sweat
Of my brow, and I'm proud to acknowledge it yet.
There's a happiness here every other beyond,
Except one: to be bound in the mystical bond
Which is woven with throbs of the heart that is true,
And the glances of eyes of a love-lightened hue.
And, perchance, even I may have tasted the bliss
That is found in the warmth of the soul-inspired kiss;
And it may have been mine--But I travel too fast.
It is time that the cobbler returned to his last.
But your silence has been philosophic and deep,
And I hope you've enjoyed--why, the man is asleep!
Only closing your eyes? Well, perhaps that will do
To tell the marines, but it's grossly untrue.
I was speaking of England? Undoubtedly so,
So I was, but it's just twenty minutes ago.
I've been talking since then in a serious strain,
And perhaps 'tis as well that I've spoken in vain.
Don't apologise. What, is it time for your train?
Well, Douglas, then here's to our meeting again
And meanwhile, old man, don't forget the pedantic
And long-winded fellow across the Atlantic.
CHRISTMAS
'Tis Christmas day; the bells ring out
The joyous tidings far and near,
And children hail with gladsome shout
The merry sound of Christmas cheer.
'Tis Christmas day, the children's day,
When He was born a little child,
To take Creation's sin away,
And purify the Truth defiled.
He taught the world to walk by faith,
And, lest their feet should go astray,
He trod Himself the faithful path,
And showed His followers the way.
He taught a Hope to all oppressed
By Sorrow's weight or Sin's remorse;
Himself the contrite sinner blessed,
To give His words a greater force.
Oh! ye who tread in Trial's way,
Nor scarce can murmuring resist,
Remember, on His natal day,
The faithful suffering of Christ.
And ye, whose thoughts in memory trace
A darkened life of wrongful deeds,
Look up and see His kindly face,
Who now for your allegiance pleads.
Oh! Christians, to your name be true,
Cast all your faithlessness away,
And let your hope be born anew
On this, your Saviour's natal day.
A SERENADE.
From afar, in the dead of night,
By the moon's dim, uncertain light,
To salute thee with loving rite,
I come, sweetheart, I come.
Oh! refuse not to hear my lay;
From the depths of my soul I pray.
Let my accents my love betray
To thee, sweetheart, to thee.
As I sing in the shade below,
As the words of my greeting flow,
I am thrilled with the fervent glow
Of love, sweetheart, of love.
I have come from the silent moor,
In the still of the midnight hour;
I have come by my passion's power
For thee, sweetheart, for thee.
Then awake from thy slumbers light;
Ere he speed on his homeward flight,
Bid thy lover a last good-night.
Good-night, sweetheart, good-night!