852
A ROYAL HEART.
Ragged, uncomely, and old and gray,
A woman walked in a Scottish town;
And through the crowd, as she wound her way,
One saw her loiter and then stoop down,
Putting something away in her old, torn gown.
"You are hiding a jewel!" the watcher said—
(Ah, that was her heart, had the truth been read.)
"What have you stolen?" he asked again;
Then the dim eyes filled with a sudden pain,
And under the flickering light of the gas
She showed him her gleaning. "It's broken glass,"
She said. "I hae lifted it up frae the street
To be oot o' the rood o' the bairnies' feet!"
Under the fluttering rags astir
That was a royal heart that beat!
Would that the world had more like her
Smoothing the road for its bairnies' feet!
—W. H. Ogilvie.
853
IS IT INSTINCT?
Ye who know the reason, tell me
How is it that instinct
Prompts the heart to like or not like
At its own capricious will?
Tell me by what hidden magic
Our impressions first are led
Into liking or disliking,
Oft before a word is said?
Why should smiles sometimes repel us?
Bright eyes turn our feelings cold?
What is it that comes to tell us
All that glitters is not gold?
Oh! no feature, plain or striking,
But a power we cannot shun
Prompts our liking and disliking,
Ere acquaintance hath begun.
Is it instinct? or some spirit
Which protects us, and controls
Every impulse we inherit,
By some sympathy of souls?
Is it instinct? is it nature?
Or some freak or fault of chance,
Which our liking or disliking
Limits to a single glance?