All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast,
Sometimes I sail o’er summer seas where ne’er a shadow’s cast;
And youth and hope are mine again, and life’s a sweet green isle
That sleeps upon the ocean’s breast and basks in heaven’s smile.
My lazy barque floats placidly towards that haven fair,
The sunny slopes grow nearer still—one moment, and I’m there;
One little leap from deck to shore—I wake with quite a start,
The milk-cans dance a carmagnole upon that early cart.
Yet sometimes have I cause to bless the awful noise they make,
’Tis when from some infernal dream their crashing bids me wake;
When on my breast a demon sits, who’s marked me for his prey,
I’m glad that milk-carts go about so early in the day.
Pass on, disturber of my rest—pass on thy way unseen;
You little know how very near to murder you have been;
Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his share
In making me the wreck I am—and p’r’aps he doesn’t care.
Yet when I sleep the dreamless sleep in that great silent town,
Where ne’er a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down—
The coroner who sat on me may possibly suggest
That “Died of too much early milk” would suit my tombstone best.
The Collaborators.
NCE on a time ’twas the freak of fate
That Fidgitt and Whims should collaborate,
So they sat them down on a midsummer day
To think of a plot and to write a play.
They both shook hands ere the task began,
Adopting the Prize Ring’s general plan,
And said, “If each other we chance to kill,
It isn’t a murder,” with right good will.
They buried their heads in their hands awhile,
Till Fidgitt looked up, with a sickly smile,
And timidly stammered a first rough plot,
Which Whims immediately said was “rot.”