~Mendicants.~
"Foot-sore, weary, o'er the hills
To your friendly door I come.
I'm a mother; in my breast
I have wrapped my only son.
Lady, blessed of the Three,
Give us shelter for a night.
Pure and wise they say thou art,
Pity one by fate bedight."
Calm and grave the maiden stood;
Eyed that weary mother long,
Drooping form, despairing face,
Eyes pathetic with great wrong.
"Enter," gently then she spake,
"Peace be thine from skies above,
Only I have closed my door,
Closed and barred it fast from Love."
By the hearthstone warm and bright
Sits the mother crooning low;
Ah! an arrow's silver gleam,
Flashes of a golden bow!
Soft she sways a dimpled child
Winged with down, and innocent;
"Hush thee, Eros,—sleep, my son,"
Sings her voice in glad content.
M. E. H. EVERETT. Madisonensis.
~With My Cigar.~
With my cigar I sit alone,
Alone in twilight's undertone,
With wav'ring shadows growing deep,
While long-forgotten faces peep
Midst curling mists of smoke, now blown
Into a frame that doth enthrone
A face that from my heart hath grown.
Sweet mem'ries o'er my being creep,
With my cigar.
Those hazel eyes on me have shone,
Those roguish lips have pressed my own,
And this the harvest that I reap!
And this the sweetness that I keep,
To wake, to find the vision flown
With my cigar!
JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. Brunonian.
~To Waltz with Thee.~