Pipes O'Pan At Zekesbury Part 8

Claim them, Death; yet their fame endures, What friend next will you rend from us In that cold, pitiless way of yours, And leave us a grief more dolorous?

Speak to us!--tell us, O Dreadful Power!-- Are we to have not a lone friend left?-- Since, frozen, sodden, or green the sod,-- In every second of every hour, _Some one_, Death, you have left thus bereft, Half inaudibly shrieks to G.o.d.

IN BOHEMIA.

Ha! My dear! I'm back again-- Vendor of Bohemia's wares!

Lordy! How it pants a man Climbing up those awful stairs!

Well, I've made the dealer say Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway!

And I've made a publisher Hear my poem, Kate, my dear.

In Bohemia, Kate, my dear-- Lodgers in a musty flat On the top floor--living here Neighborless, and used to that,-- Like a nest beneath the eaves, So our little home receives Only guests of chirping cheer-- We'll be happy, Kate, my dear!

Under your north-light there, you At your easel, with a stain On your nose of Prussian blue, Paint your bits of shine and rain; With my feet thrown up at will O'er my littered window-sill, I write rhymes that ring as clear As your laughter, Kate, my dear.

Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair-- Bite my pencil-tip and gaze At you, mutely mooning there O'er your "Aprils" and your "Mays!"

Equal inspiration in Dimples of your cheek and chin, And the golden atmosphere Of your paintings, Kate, my dear!

_Trying_! Yes, at times it is, To clink happy rhymes, and fling On the canvas scenes of bliss, When we are half famishing!-- When your "jersey" rips in spots, And your hat's "forget-me-nots"

Have grown tousled, old and sere-- It is trying, Kate, my dear!

But--as sure--_some_ picture sells, And--sometimes--the poetry-- Bless us! How the parrot yells His acclaims at you and me!

How we revel then in scenes Of high banqueting!--sardines-- Salads--olives--and a sheer Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!

Even now I cross your palm, With this great round world of gold!-- "Talking wild?" Perhaps I am-- Then, this little five-year-old!-- Call it anything you will, So it lifts your face until I may kiss away that tear Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.

IN THE DARK.

O in the depths of midnight What fancies haunt the brain!

When even the sigh of the sleeper Sounds like a sob of pain.

A sense of awe and of wonder I may never well define,-- For the thoughts that come in the shadows Never come in the shine.

The old clock down in the parlor Like a sleepless mourner grieves, And the seconds drip in the silence As the rain drips from the eaves.

And I think of the hands that signal The hours there in the gloom, And wonder what angel watchers Wait in the darkened room.

And I think of the smiling faces That used to watch and wait, Till the click of the clock was answered By the click of the opening gate.--

They are not there now in the evening-- Morning or noon--not there; Yet I know that they keep their vigil, And wait for me Somewhere.

WET WEATHER TALK.

It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: When G.o.d sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.

Men giner'ly, to all intents-- Although they're ap' to grumble some-- Puts most their trust in Providence, And takes things as they come;-- That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me, Has watched the world enough to learn They're not the boss of the concern.

With _some_, of course, it's different-- I've seed _young_ men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestial ball!

But, all the same, the rain some way Rained jest as hard on picnic-day; Er when they railly wanted it, It maybe wouldn't rain a bit!

In this existence, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men-- Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then; But maybe, while you're wondern' who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you ain't got none!

It aggervates the farmers, too-- They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waiting round to do Before the plowin''s done; And maybe, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm--and jest about The time the corn 's a-jintin' out!

These here cy-clones a-foolin' round-- And back'ard crops--and wind and rain, And yit the corn that's wallered down May elbow up again!

They ain't no sense, as I kin see, In mortals, sich as you and me, A-faultin' Nature's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence!

It ain't no use to grumble and complain; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: When G.o.d sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.

WHERE SHALL WE LAND.

"_Where shall we land you, sweet_?"--Swinburne.

All listlessly we float Out seaward in the boat That beareth Love.

Our sails of purest snow Bend to the blue below And to the blue above.

Where shall we land?

We drift upon a tide Sh.o.r.eless on every side, Save where the eye Of Fancy sweeps far lands Shelved slopingly with sands Of gold and porphyry.

Where shall we land?

The fairy isles we see, Loom up so mistily-- So vaguely fair, We do not care to break Fresh bubbles in our wake To bend our course for there.

Where shall we land?

The warm winds of the deep Have lulled our sails to sleep, And so we glide Careless of wave or wind, Or change of any kind, Or turn of any tide.

Where shall we land?

We droop our dreamy eyes Where our reflection lies Steeped in the sea, And, in an endless fit Of languor, smile on it And its sweet mimicry.

Where shall we land?