But who are these, so fresh and sweet,
In lovely hats and dresses,
Who half advance, and half retreat,
And peep through clouds of tresses?
"Come, dears!" They shyly offer hand,
Beneath the jasmin trellis;
"Say who you are, girls"—Charlotte, and
Her sister, Caroline Ellis!
Sweet Charlotte hath a serious face,
A gaze almost parental;
A type of every maiden grace,
But a wee bit sentimental.
Bright Caroline hath eyes that dance,
While buoyant airs engirdle her;
Her playful soul may love romance,
But not a creepy curdler.
Sweet Charlotte's are the deep grey eyes
That win profound devotion;
Bright Carry's flash, like azure skies,
With heliograph in motion.
As merry as the vintage ray,
That dances down the grape-rill;
As tender as the dews of May,
Or apple-buds of April.
Their charms are safe to grow more bright
For at least two lustral stages;
And so it seems not unpolite
To enquire what their age is.
"Last May, I was fifteen"; with glee
Replies the laughing Carry;
Sage Charlotte adds—"And I shall be
Seventeen, next February."
To the dining-room we walk on air,
Disdaining jots and tittles;
To feed seems such a low affair—
And yet, hurrah for victuals!
Could e'en a boy ply knife and fork,
In presence so poetic,
Until the vicar draws a cork,
And gives the sniff prophetic?
And when the evening games began,
Pope Joan, and Speculation—
What head could keep its poise and plan,
With the heart in palpitation?
Until, in soft white-curtained bed,
We sink to slumber lowly,
And angels fan the childish head,
With visions sweet and holy.
"Now I do declare," exclaimed our host,
As he strode back from the arish,
"Those railway fellows soon will boast
They have undermined my parish!
"Though none can say I have ever set
My face against improvement,
I cannot quite perceive as yet
The good of this new movement
"Like Hannibal, these folk confound
All nature's institutions,
And shun, with a great dive underground,
Parochial contributions!
"Come boys and girls, let us see their craft,
These hills of Devon will task it;
'Tis a pretty walk to White-Ball shaft,
If the boys will take a basket
"Dear wife; if your poor feet are right,
The miracles of this cycle
Will give you a noble appetite,
For the roast goose of Saint Michael."
In a twinkle, we had baskets twain
Of the right stuff for a journey,
And beautiful gooseberry Champagne,
Superior to Epernay,
What myriad joys of heart and mind
Flit in and out our brief age!
That day it was grand to see how kind
The sun looked through the leafage!
While the leaves for their part pricked their lips,
With a dewy simper waiting;
They were conscious of some amber tips—
But those Were his own creating.
Can the heart of man alone be dull,
And the mind of man be spiteful,
When all above is beautiful,
And all below delightful?
When Season bright, and Season rich,
Make bids against each other;
And earth, uncertain which is which,
Smiles up at Nature Mother.
The copse, the lane, the meadow path,
The valleys, banks, and hedges,
Were green with summer's aftermath,
And gold with autumn's pledges.
Wild rose hung coral beads above,
And satchel'd nuts grew nigh them;
Like tips of a little maiden's glove,
Ere ever she has to buy them.
But ours are not the maids to bite
A gore or gusset undone;
How neat they look, how trim and tight!
Those frocks were made in London.
Long time, we glance in awe and doubt,
Suppressing all frivolity;
Till the spirit of the age breaks out,
And all is mirth and jollity.
One flash, that stole from eyes demure,
Hath scattered all convention;
And then a pearly laugh makes sure
That fun is her intention.
The smiling elders march ahead;
We dance, without a fiddler,
We play at cross-touch, White and Red,
Tip-cat, and Tommy Tidier.
We laugh and shout, much more than speak,
No etiquette importunes;
The trees were made for hide-and-seek,
The flowers to tell our fortunes;
The hills, for pretty girls to pant,
And glow with richer roses;
The wind itself, to toss askant
The curls that hide their noses.
Then sprightly Carry shouts in French—
"All boys and girls, come nutting!"
We are slipping down a mighty trench—
Why, it is the Railway cutting I
Before us yawns a dark-browed arch,
Paved with a muddy runnel;
A thousand giant navvies march
To delve the White-Ball tunnel.
Oh, if a man of them but did
Presume to glance at Carry,
Though he were Milo, or John Ridd,
I would toss him to Old Harry.
I pull my jacket off, like him
Who would shatter England's pillars—
From the tunnel comes an order grim,
"Get out of the way you chillers!"
And the same stern order doth apply
To the pranks of this remote age!
We are sure alike to be thrust by,
In our nonage, and our dotage.
Yet who shall grudge the tranquil age,
When nought can now betide ill,
To glance, from a distant hermitage,
At a summer morning idyll?