"O changeful woman! Constant man!"
Has been the theme for buried ages.
But here's the truth: say "No" who can—
Ye bards, philosophers, and sages:
Men buy their Hats all kinds of shapes;
Our own Welshwomen change their's never;
'Tis with their Hats as with their loves—
Where fancy rests the heart approves,
And, loving once, they love for ever!
SHADOWS IN THE FIRE.
She sat and she gazed in the fire:
In the fire with a dreamy look:
And she seemed as though she could never tire
Of reading the fiery book.
She saw, midst the embers bright,
A figure both manly and fair,
Blue eyes that shone with a loving light:
And showers of nut-brown hair.
She saw her own image stand
By that form on a sunny day:
One kiss of the lip: one grasp of the hand:
And her heart was borne away.
She saw, through the flickering flame,
A bier in a darkened room:
And a coffin that bore her idol's name
Was hurried away to the tomb.
She saw, from a distant strand,
A missive sent over the main:
The letter was writ by a stranger's hand:
And she sighed for her lover in vain.
So she sat and she gazed in the fire:
In the fire, with a dreamy look:
And she seemed as though she could never tire
Of reading the fiery book.
THE BELFRY OLD.
On a New Year's Eve, by a belfry old,
With a sea of solemn graves around,
While the grim grey tower of the village church
Kept silent ward o'er each grassy mound,
With a cloak of ivy about it grown,
Fringed round, like fur, with a snowy fray;
On a New Year's Eve I watched alone
The life of the last year ebbing away.