DONALD—A PONY.

Are thy tired feet on this rough earth yet walking,

Thou patient silent one;

Maybe, with humble cart, and poor wares hawking,

Thy life-course nearly run?

Be thankful that thou dost not e’er remember

One radiant summer day;

That dreams of June come not in thy December,

When skies are cold and gray!

He rode on thee along the sunny highway,

To meet me where I stood

Out from the village, in a soft green by-way—

Our young hearts were in flood.

He saw me—swift as thought from off thee leaping,

He led thee by one hand;

And with the other clasped me, sweetly keeping

Me under Love’s command.

Ah! then began a walk through Eden’s glory—

We wandered slowly on;

While I, deep blushing, saw and read the story

That through his blue eyes shone.

We sat, and let thee browse—came some light laughter

To ease our brimming hearts,

That could not tell their too full joy; till—after—

When pierced by parting’s darts.

The hour flew on—ah me! ’twas our last meeting

Ere he would cross the sea;

And when again we two should offer greeting,

I was his bride to be.

So we clung close, each costly moment counting,

Wild with our vain self-pity!—

The hour was o’er—then slowly on thee mounting,

He rode back to the city.

O Donald! Yesterday, to Wemyss Bay going,

I passed that very spot;

I saw thee browse, whilst our swift tears were flowing—

(I have not yet forgot).

He sailed across the sea; but came not hither

For me, his bride, again;

And Hope and Joy fled far—I know not whither,

But left me Love and Pain.

My lonely days are dull and cold and common,

And thine mayhap are done;

But—a new day dawns for man and woman

After this setting sun.

K. T.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.