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Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces
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Then grinned the Ancient Briton
From the tumulus treed with pine:
“So, hearts are thwartly smitten
In these days as in mine!”
SEEN BY THE WAITS
Through snowy woods and shady
We went to play a tune
To the lonely manor-lady
By the light of the Christmas moon.
We violed till, upward glancing
To where a mirror leaned,
We saw her airily dancing,
Deeming her movements screened;
Dancing alone in the room there,
Thin-draped in her robe of night;
Her postures, glassed in the gloom there,
Were a strange phantasmal sight.
She had learnt (we heard when homing)
That her roving spouse was dead;
Why she had danced in the gloaming
We thought, but never said.
THE TWO SOLDIERS
Just at the corner of the wall
We met – yes, he and I —
Who had not faced in camp or hall
Since we bade home good-bye,
And what once happened came back – all —
Out of those years gone by.
And that strange woman whom we knew
And loved – long dead and gone,
Whose poor half-perished residue,
Tombless and trod, lay yon!
But at this moment to our view
Rose like a phantom wan.
And in his fixed face I could see,
Lit by a lurid shine,
The drama re-enact which she
Had dyed incarnadine
For us, and more. And doubtless he
Beheld it too in mine.
A start, as at one slightly known,
And with an indifferent air
We passed, without a sign being shown
That, as it real were,
A memory-acted scene had thrown
Its tragic shadow there.
THE DEATH OF REGRET
I opened my shutter at sunrise,
And looked at the hill hard by,
And I heartily grieved for the comrade
Who wandered up there to die.
I let in the morn on the morrow,
And failed not to think of him then,
As he trod up that rise in the twilight,
And never came down again.
I undid the shutter a week thence,
But not until after I’d turned
Did I call back his last departure
By the upland there discerned.
Uncovering the casement long later,
I bent to my toil till the gray,
When I said to myself, “Ah – what ails me,
To forget him all the day!”
As daily I flung back the shutter
In the same blank bald routine,
He scarcely once rose to remembrance
Through a month of my facing the scene.
And ah, seldom now do I ponder
At the window as heretofore
On the long valued one who died yonder,
And wastes by the sycamore.
IN THE DAYS OF CRINOLINE
A plain tilt-bonnet on her head
She took the path across the leaze.
– Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,
“Too dowdy that, for coquetries,
So I can hoe at ease.”
But when she had passed into the heath,
And gained the wood beyond the flat,
She raised her skirts, and from beneath
From the tumulus treed with pine:
“So, hearts are thwartly smitten
In these days as in mine!”
SEEN BY THE WAITS
Through snowy woods and shady
We went to play a tune
To the lonely manor-lady
By the light of the Christmas moon.
We violed till, upward glancing
To where a mirror leaned,
We saw her airily dancing,
Deeming her movements screened;
Dancing alone in the room there,
Thin-draped in her robe of night;
Her postures, glassed in the gloom there,
Were a strange phantasmal sight.
She had learnt (we heard when homing)
That her roving spouse was dead;
Why she had danced in the gloaming
We thought, but never said.
THE TWO SOLDIERS
Just at the corner of the wall
We met – yes, he and I —
Who had not faced in camp or hall
Since we bade home good-bye,
And what once happened came back – all —
Out of those years gone by.
And that strange woman whom we knew
And loved – long dead and gone,
Whose poor half-perished residue,
Tombless and trod, lay yon!
But at this moment to our view
Rose like a phantom wan.
And in his fixed face I could see,
Lit by a lurid shine,
The drama re-enact which she
Had dyed incarnadine
For us, and more. And doubtless he
Beheld it too in mine.
A start, as at one slightly known,
And with an indifferent air
We passed, without a sign being shown
That, as it real were,
A memory-acted scene had thrown
Its tragic shadow there.
THE DEATH OF REGRET
I opened my shutter at sunrise,
And looked at the hill hard by,
And I heartily grieved for the comrade
Who wandered up there to die.
I let in the morn on the morrow,
And failed not to think of him then,
As he trod up that rise in the twilight,
And never came down again.
I undid the shutter a week thence,
But not until after I’d turned
Did I call back his last departure
By the upland there discerned.
Uncovering the casement long later,
I bent to my toil till the gray,
When I said to myself, “Ah – what ails me,
To forget him all the day!”
As daily I flung back the shutter
In the same blank bald routine,
He scarcely once rose to remembrance
Through a month of my facing the scene.
And ah, seldom now do I ponder
At the window as heretofore
On the long valued one who died yonder,
And wastes by the sycamore.
IN THE DAYS OF CRINOLINE
A plain tilt-bonnet on her head
She took the path across the leaze.
– Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,
“Too dowdy that, for coquetries,
So I can hoe at ease.”
But when she had passed into the heath,
And gained the wood beyond the flat,
She raised her skirts, and from beneath
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