Beyond mechanic furtherance—what
Advance can rightness, candour, claim?
Truth bends abashed, and answers not.
Despite your volumes’ gentle aim
To straighten visions wry and wrong,
Events jar onward much the same!
—Had custom tended to prolong,
As on your golden page engrained,
Old processes of blade and prong,
And best invention been retained
For high crusades to lessen tears
Throughout the race, the world had gained! . . .
But too much, this, for fifty years.
THE SATIN SHOES
“If ever I walk to church to wed,
As other maidens use,
And face the gathered eyes,” she said,
“I’ll go in satin shoes!”
She was as fair as early day
Shining on meads unmown,
And her sweet syllables seemed to play
Like flute-notes softly blown.
The time arrived when it was meet
That she should be a bride;
The satin shoes were on her feet,
Her father was at her side.
They stood within the dairy door,
And gazed across the green;
The church loomed on the distant moor,
But rain was thick between.
“The grass-path hardly can be stepped,
The lane is like a pool!”—
Her dream is shown to be inept,
Her wish they overrule.