AN UNMUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
I once knew a man who was musical mad—
A hundred years old was the fiddle he had;
I never complained, but whenever he played
I wished I had lived when that fiddle was made.
THE CHALICE.
BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.
Swift, storm-scud, raced the morning sky,
As light along the road I fared;
Stern was the way, yet glad was I,
Though feet and breast and brow were bared;
For fancy, like a happy child,
Ran on before and turned and smiled.
The track grew fair with turf and tree,
The air was blithe with bird and flower.
Boon nature's gentlest wizardry
Was potent with the bounteous hour:
A raptured languor o'er me crept;
I laid me down at noon and slept.
I woke, and there, as in a dream,
Which holds some boding fear of wrong,
By fog-bound fen and sluggard stream
I dragged my leaden steps along.
My blood ran ice; I turned and spied
A shrouded figure at my side.
"And who art thou that pacest here?"
He answered like a hollow wind,
Not heard by any outer ear,
But in dim chambers of the mind.
"I walk," he said, "in ways of shame,
The comrade of thy wasted fame."
A passion clamoured in my breast,
For mirthless laughter, and I laughed;
In mine the phantom's cold hand pressed
A cup, and in self's spite I quaffed.
It clung like slime; 'twas black like ink:
Death is less bitter than that drink.