WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHAT HAS TAMED

WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great Nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my Country!-am I to be blamed?
Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

W. Wordsworth.

POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD

CONSTANCY

OUT upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings,
Ere he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me:

Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,

And that very face,

There had been at least ere this

A dozen in her place.

Sir J. Suckling.

THE COURTIN' *

GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still
Fur 'z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company,

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown

An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side
With half a cord o' wood in-

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her,
An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbly crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted

The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetched back f'om Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin',

An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur;

A dog-rose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clear grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-
All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple;
The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez his'n in the choir;

My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring
She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin'-bunnet
Felt somehow thru its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upun it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some!
She seemed to 've gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper,—

All ways to once her feelin's flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle;
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But her'n went pity Zekle.

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o'smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind

Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.