Shall earth and the cramped moment-space Now the parts and then the whole ! shall that be life's strait dole? I must live beloved or die !' This peasant hand that spins the wool Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand! IX. ON DECK. I. THERE is nothing to remember in me, 2. Conceded! In turn, concede to me, Such things have been as a mutual flame. 3. For then, then, what would it matter to me That I was the harsh, ill-favored one? St. 1. Nothing I did that you care to see refers to her art-work. 80 How strange it were if you had all me, 5. Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, With eyes as dear in their due degree, Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow, 6. Well, you may, you must, set down to me A passion to stand as your thoughts approve, 7. But did one touch of such love for me Round me and round while life endures, St. 3. Here it is indicated that she had not the personal charms which were needed to maintain her husband's interest. A pretty face was more to him than a deep loving soul. St. 6. vv. 3-5 express the entire devotion and submissiveness of her love. 8. Why, fade you might to a thing like me, And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree, You might turn myself! should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James Lee? A TALÉ. EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC." I. WHAT a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time - Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. 2. Anyhow there's no forgetting That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. 3. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Quite as singing: I desire, 4. There stood he, while deep attention -Judges able, I should mention, 5. None the less he sang out boldly, Till the judges, weighing coldly. Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!" St. 7. With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. Cicada," do you say? Pooh! that's bringing the mysterious little thing down to the plane of entomology. 8. So that when (Ah joy !) our singer Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? 9. Ay and, ever to the ending, IO. Till, at ending, all the judges "Take the prize-a prize who grudges Why, we took your lyre for harp, II. Did the conqueror spurn the creature, That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul-development. St. 11. when Music's son, etc.: a fling at Goethe. |