The Home Book of Verse Volume I Part 67

DA LEETLA BOY

Da spreeng ees com'; but oh, da joy Eet ees too late!

He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait.

I no can count how manny week, How manny day, dat he ees seeck; How manny night I seet an' hold Da leetla hand dat was so cold.

He was so patience, oh, so sweet!

Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet; An' all he evra ask ees w'en Ees gona com' da spreeng agen.

Wan day, wan brighta sunny day, He see, across da alleyway, Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere Ees raise her window for da air, An' put outside a leetla pot Of--w'at-you-call?--forgat-me-not.

So smalla flower, so leetla theeng!

But steell eet mak' hees hearta seeng: "Oh, now, at las', ees com' da spreeng!

Da leetla plant ees glad for know Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow.

So, too, I am grow warm and strong."

So lika dat he seeng hees song.

But, ah! da night com' down an' den Da weenter ees sneak back agen, An' een da alley all da night Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white, An' cover up da leetla pot Of--w'at-you-call?--forgat-me-not.

All night da leetla hand I hold Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold!

Da spreeng ees com'; but, oh, da joy Eet ees too late!

He was so cold, my leetla boy, He no could wait.

Thomas Augustin Daly [1871-

ON THE MOOR

I I met a child upon the moor A-wading down the heather; She put her hand into my own, We crossed the fields together.

I led her to her father's door-- A cottage midst the clover.

I left her--and the world grew poor To me, a childless rover.

II I met a maid upon the moor, The morrow was her wedding.

Love lit her eyes with lovelier hues Than the eve-star was shedding.

She looked a sweet good-bye to me, And o'er the stile went singing.

Down all the lonely night I heard But bridal bells a-ringing.

III I met a mother on the moor, By a new grave a-praying.

The happy swallows in the blue Upon the winds were playing.

"Would I were in his grave," I said, "And he beside her standing!"

There was no heart to break if death For me had made demanding.

Cale Young Rice [1872-

EPITAPH OF DIONYSIA

Here doth Dionysia lie: She whose little wanton foot, Tripping (ah, too carelessly!) Touched this tomb, and fell into 't.

Trip no more shall she, nor fall.

And her trippings were so few!

Summers only eight in all Had the sweet child wandered through.

But, already, life's few suns Love's strong seeds had ripened warm.

All her ways were winning ones; All her cunning was to charm.

And the fancy, in the flower, While the flesh was in the bud, Childhood's dawning s.e.x did dower With warm gusts of womanhood.

Oh what joys by hope begun, Oh what kisses kissed by thought, What love-deeds by fancy done, Death to endless dust hath wrought!

Had the fates been kind as thou, Who, till now, was never cold, Once Love's aptest scholar, now Thou hadst been his teacher bold;

But, if buried seeds upthrow Fruits and flowers; if flower and fruit By their nature fitly show What the seeds are, whence they shoot,

Dionysia, o'er this tomb, Where thy buried beauties be, From their dust shall spring and bloom Loves and graces like to thee.

Unknown

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE

The night is late, the house is still; The angels of the hour fulfil Their tender ministries, and move From couch to couch in cares of love.

They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, The happiest smile of Charlie's life, And lay on baby's lips a kiss, Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; And, as they pa.s.s, they seem to make A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake."

My listening heart takes up the strain, And gives it to the night again, Fitted with words of lowly praise, And patience learned of mournful days, And memories of the dead child's ways.

His will be done, His will be done!

Who gave and took away my son, In "the far land" to s.h.i.+ne and sing Before the Beautiful, the King, Who every day doth Christmas make, All starred and belled for Charlie's sake.

For Charlie's sake I will arise; I will anoint me where he lies, And change my raiment, and go in To the Lord's house, and leave my sin Without, and seat me at his board, Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.

For wherefore should I fast and weep, And sullen moods of mourning keep?

I cannot bring him back, nor he, For any calling, come to me.

The bond the angel Death did sign, G.o.d sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine.

I'm very poor--this slender stone Marks all the narrow field I own; Yet, patient husbandman, I till With faith and prayers, that precious hill, Sow it with penitential pains, And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; Content if, after all, the spot Yield barely one forget-me-not-- Whether or figs or thistles make My crop, content for Charlie's sake.

I have no houses, builded well-- Only that little lonesome cell, Where never romping playmates come, Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb-- An April burst of girls and boys, Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys Born with their songs, gone with their toys; Nor ever is its stillness stirred By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, Or mother's twilight legend, told Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, Or fairy hobbling to the door, Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, To bless the good child's gracious eyes, The good child's wistful charities, And crippled changeling's hunch to make Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake.

How is it with the child? 'Tis well; Nor would I any miracle Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, Or plague his painless countenance: I would not any seer might place His staff on my immortal's face, Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, Charm back his pale mortality.

No, Shunamite! I would not break G.o.d's stillness. Let them weep who wake.

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest: No comfort like his mother's breast, No praise like hers; no charm expressed In fairest forms hath half her zest.

For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed That death left lonely in the nest; For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, As for its birthday, in its best; For Charlie's sake we leave the rest To Him who gave, and who did take, And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake.