He met her with her milking-cans,
Too fast the moments speeded,
For while they chat on this and that
My first may low unheeded.
And was she call’d a forward jade,
And was he graceless reckon’d,
Because he stopt the dairy-maid,
Enchanted by my second?
Though stars in thousands stud the pole,
The fields own stars as yellow,
And when I gave that last my whole,
She thank’d a happy fellow.
But she was call’d a forward jade,
And I was graceless reckon’d;—
I only kiss’d that dairy-maid,
Enraptur’d by my second.
ENIGMA
Toll, toll the bell, its iron tongue
Is weighty as my second,
Dig, dig the grave, to life he clung,
But now his days are reckon’d.
Old man, who’ll ring a knell for thee,
Or dress thy couch of clay?
Why didst not thou thy death foresee,
And dig it for to-day?
King Death his journeyman demands,
On all he works his worst:
His dart he’s flung at old and young,—
Death heedeth not my first.
Old man, thou’st dug some scores of graves,
Who’ll turn the mould for thine?
And when this spade thy bed hath made,
Who’ll lift a spade at mine?
TO THE PRINTER’S DEVIL
Small imp of blackness, off at once,
Expend thy mirth as likes thee best:
Thy toil is over for the nonce;
Yes, “opus operatum est.”
When dreary authors vex thee sore,
Thy Mentor’s old, and would remind thee
That if thy griefs are all before,
Thy pleasures are not all behind thee.
the end