Fly Leaves | Page 7

than once been scratch'd and bitten.
And when for sleep her
limbs she curl'd
One day beside her untouch'd plateful,
And glided calmly from the
world,
I freely own that I was grateful.
And then I bought a dog--a queen!
Ah Tiny, dear departing pug!
She lives, but she is past sixteen
And scarce can crawl across the rug.
I loved her beautiful and kind;
Delighted in her pert Bow-wow:
But now she snaps if you don't
mind;
'Twere lunacy to love her now.
I used to think, should e'er mishap
Betide my crumple visaged Ti,
In shape of prowling thief, or trap,

Or coarse bull-terrier--I should die.
But ah! disasters have their use;
And life might e'en be too sunshiny:
Nor would I make myself a
goose,
If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
CONTENTMENT.
AFTER THE MANNER OF HORACE.
Friend, there be they on whom mishap
Or never or so rarely comes,
That, when they think thereof, they snap
Derisive thumbs:
And there be they who lightly lose
Their all, yet feel no aching void;
Should aught annoy them, they
refuse
To be annoy'd:
And fain would I be e'en as these!
Life is with such all beer and skittles;
They are not difficult to please
About their victuals:
The trout, the grouse, the early pea,
By such, if there, are freely taken;
If not, they munch with equal glee
Their bit of bacon:
And when they wax a little gay
And chaff the public after luncheon,
If they're confronted with a stray

Policeman's truncheon,
They gaze thereat with outstretch'd necks,
And laughter which no threats can smother,
And tell the
horror-stricken X
That he's another.
In snowtime if they cross a spot
Where unsuspected boys have slid,
They fall not down--though they
would not
Mind if they did:
When the spring rosebud which they wear
Breaks short and tumbles from its stem,
No thought of being angry
e'er
Dawns upon them;
Though 'twas Jemima's hand that placed,
(As well you ween) at evening's hour,
In the loved button-hole that
chaste
And cherish'd flower.
And when they travel, if they find
That they have left their pocket-compass
Or Murray or thick boots
behind,
They raise no rumpus,
But plod serenely on without:

Knowing it's better to endure
The evil which beyond all doubt
You cannot cure.
When for that early train they're late,
They do not make their woes the text
Of sermons in the Times, but
wait
On for the next;
And jump inside, and only grin
Should it appear that that dry wag,
The guard, omitted to put in
Their carpet-bag.
THE SCHOOLMASTER
ABROAD WITH HIS SON.
O what harper could worthily harp it,
Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold
(Look out wold) with its
wonderful carpet
Of emerald, purple, and gold!
Look well at it--also look sharp, it
Is getting so cold.
The purple is heather (erica);
The yellow, gorse--call'd sometimes "whin."
Cruel boys on its
prickles might spike a
Green beetle as if on a pin.
You may roll in it, if you would like a
Few holes in your skin.
You wouldn't? Then think of how kind you

Should be to the insects who crave
Your compassion--and then, look
behind you
At you barley-ears! Don't they look brave
As they
undulate--(undulate, mind you,
From unda, a wave).
The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint it
Sounds here--(on account of our height)!
And this hillock itself--who
could paint it,
With its changes of shadow and light?
Is it not--(never, Eddy, say
"ain't it") -
A marvellous sight?
Then yon desolate eerie morasses,
The haunts of the snipe and the hern -
(I shall question the two upper
classes
On aquatiles, when we return) -
Why, I see on them absolute masses
Of filix or fern.
How it interests e'en a beginner
(Or tiro) like dear little Ned!
Is he listening? As I am a sinner
He's asleep--he is wagging his head.
Wake up! I'll go home to my
dinner,
And you to your bed.
The boundless ineffable prairie;

The splendour of mountain and lake
With their hues that seem ever to
vary;
The mighty pine-forests which shake
In the wind, and in which the
unwary
May tread on a snake;
And this wold with its heathery garment -
Are themes undeniably great.
But--although there is not any harm in't
-
It's perhaps little good to dilate
On their charms to a dull little varmint
Of seven or eight.
ARCADES AMBO.
Why are ye wandering aye 'twixt porch and porch,
Thou and thy fellow--when the pale stars fade
At dawn, and when the
glowworm lights her torch,
O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade?
--Who asketh why the Beautiful
was made?
A wan cloud drifting o'er the waste of blue,
The thistledown that floats above the glade,
The lilac-blooms of
April--fair to view,
And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween,
are you.
Yes, ye are beautiful. The young street boys
Joy in your beauty. Are ye there to bar
Their pathway to that paradise
of toys,
Ribbons and rings? Who'll blame ye if ye