And evermore, when winter comes in his garb of snows,
And the returning schoolboy is told how fast he grows;
Shall I—with that soft hand in mine—enact ideal Lancers,
And dream I hear demure remarks, and make impassioned answers.
I know that never, never may her love for me return—
At night I muse upon the fact with undisguised concern—
But ever shall I bless that day!—I don't bless, as a rule,
The days I spent at "Dr. Crabb's Preparatory School."
And yet we two may meet again,—(Be still, my throbbing heart!)
Now rolling years have weaned us from jam and raspberry-tart.
One night I saw a vision—'twas when musk-roses bloom,
I stood—we stood—upon a rug, in a sumptuous dining-room:
One hand clasped hers—one easily reposed upon my hip—
And "Bless ye!" burst abruptly from Mr. Goodchild's lip:
I raised my brimming eye, and saw in hers an answering gleam—
My heart beat wildly—and I woke, and lo! it was a dream.
CHANGED
I know not why my soul is racked;
Why I ne'er smile, as was my wont
I only know that, as a fact,
I don't.
I used to roam o'er glen and glade,
Buoyant and blithe as other folk,
And not unfrequently I made
A joke.
A minstrel's fire within me burned;
I'd sing, as one whose heart must break,
Lay upon lay—I nearly learned
To shake.