Part 37

And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows, And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows; Shall I--with that soft hand in mine--enact ideal Lancers, And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers.

I know that never, never may her love for me return-- At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern-- But ever shall I bless that day!--I don't bless, as a rule, The days I spent at "Dr. Crabb's Preparatory School."

And yet we two may meet again,--(Be still, my throbbing heart!) Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry-tart. One night I saw a vision--'twas when musk-roses bloom, I stood--_we_ stood--upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:

One hand clasped hers--one easily reposed upon my hip-- And "Bless ye!" burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild's lip: I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam-- My heart beat wildly--and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.

CHANGED

I know not why my soul is racked; Why I ne'er smile, as was my wont I only know that, as a fact, I don't.

I used to roam o'er glen and glade, Buoyant and blithe as other folk, And not unfrequently I made A joke.

A minstrel's fire within me burned; I'd sing, as one whose heart must break, Lay upon lay--I nearly learned To shake.

All day I sang; of love and fame, Of fights our fathers fought of yore, Until the thing almost became A bore.

I cannot sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low; 'Tis that I can't remember how They go.

I could not range the hills till high Above me stood the summer moon: And as to dancing, I could fly As soon.

The sports, to which with boyish glee I sprang erewhile, attract no more: Although I am but sixty-three Or four.

Nay, worse than that, I've seemed of late To shrink from happy boyhood--boys Have grown so noisy, and I hate A noise.

They fright me when the beech is green, By swarming up its stem for eggs; They drive their horrid hoops between My legs.

It's idle to repine, I know; I'll tell you what I'll do instead: I'll drink my arrowroot, and go To bed.

THOUGHTS AT A RAILWAY STATION

'Tis but a box, of modest deal; Directed to no matter where: Yet down my cheek the teardrops steal-- Yes, I am blubbering like a seal; For on it is this mute appeal, "_With care_."

I am a stern cold man, and range Apart: but those vague words "_With care_" Wake yearnings in me sweet as strange: Drawn from my moral Moated Grange, I feel I rather like the change Of air.

Hast thou ne'er seen rough pointsmen spy Some simple English phrase--"_With care_" Or "_This side uppermost_"--and cry Like children? No? No more have I. Yet deem not him whose eyes are dry A bear.

But ah! what treasure hides beneath That lid so much the worse for wear? A ring perhaps--a rosy wreath-- A photograph by Vernon Heath-- Some matron's temporary teeth Or hair!

Perhaps some seaman, in Peru Or Ind, hath stowed herein a rare Cargo of birds'-eggs for his Sue; With many a vow that he'll be true, And many a hint that she is too-- Too fair.

Perhaps--but wherefore vainly pry Into the page that's folded there? I shall be better by-and-by: The porters, as I sit and sigh, Pass and repass--I wonder why They stare!

"FOREVER"

Forever! 'Tis a single word! Our rude forefathers deemed it two; Can you imagine so absurd A view?

Forever! What abysms of woe The word reveals, what frenzy, what Despair! For ever (printed so) Did not.

It looks, ah me! how trite and tame; It fails to sadden or appall Or solace--it is not the same At all.

O thou to whom it first occurred To solder the disjoined, and dower Thy native language with a word Of power:

We bless thee! Whether far or near Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair Thy kingly brow, is neither here Nor there.

But in men's hearts shall be thy throne, While the great pulse of England beats: Thou coiner of a word unknown To Keats!

And nevermore must printer do As men did long ago; but run "For" into "ever," bidding two Be one.

Forever! passion-fraught, it throws O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour: It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose It's grammar.

Forever! 'Tis a single word! And yet our fathers deemed it two: Nor am I confident they erred;-- Are you?