Thomas Campbell.
"FLIGHT."
Never again shall her leaping welcome
Hail my coming at eventide;
Never again shall her glancing footfall
Range the fallow from side to side.
Under the raindrops, under the snowflakes,
Down in a narrow and darksome bed,
Safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving,
Lieth my beautiful, still and dead.
Mouth of silver, and skin of satin,
Foot as fleet as an arrow's flight,
Statue-still at the call of "steady,"
Eyes as clear as the stars of night.
Laughing breadths of the yellow stubble
Now shall rustle to alien tread,
And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover
Safe—for my beautiful lieth dead.
"Only a dog!" do you say, Sir Critic?
Only a dog, but as truth I prize,
The truest love I have won in living
Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes.
Frosts of winter nor heat of summer
Could make her fail if my footsteps led;
And memory holds in its treasure-casket
The name of my darling who lieth dead.
S. M. A. C. in Evening Post.