Part 10

TO E.M.--A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME.

Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon, Sugar or spice or cream, Has the wild berry plucked in June Beside the trickling stream.

One such to melt at the tongue's root, Confounding taste with scent, Beats a full peck of garden fruit: Which points my argument.

May sudden justice overtake And snap the froward pen, That old and palsied poets shake Against the minds of men.

Blasphemers trusting to hold caught In far-flung webs of ink, The utmost ends of human thought Till nothing's left to think.

But may the gift of heavenly peace And glory for all time Keep the boy Tom who tending geese First made the nursery rhyme.

By the brookside one August day, Using the sun for clock, Tom whiled the languid hours away Beside his scattering flock.

Carving with a sharp pointed stone On a broad slab of slate The famous lives of Jumping Joan, Dan Fox and Greedy Kate.

Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds, Spain, Scotland, Babylon, That sister Kate might learn the words To tell to toddling John.

But Kate who could not stay content To learn her lesson pat New beauty to the rough lines lent By changing this or that.

And she herself set fresh things down In corners of her slate, Of lambs and lanes and London town. God's blessing fall on Kate!

The baby loved the simple sound, With jolly glee he shook, And soon the lines grew smooth and round Like pebbles in Tom's brook.

From mouth to mouth told and retold By children sprawled at ease, Before the fire in winter's cold, in June, beneath tall trees.

Till though long lost are stone and slate, Though the brook no more runs, And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate, Their sons and their sons' sons.

Yet as when Time with stealthy tread Lays the rich garden waste The woodland berry ripe and red Fails not in scent or taste,

So these same rhymes shall still be told To children yet unborn, While false philosophy growing old Fades and is killed by scorn.

JANE.

As Jane walked out below the hill, She saw an old man standing still, His eyes in tranced sorrow bound On the broad stretch of barren ground.

His limbs were knarled like aged trees, His thin beard wrapt about his knees, His visage broad and parchment white, Aglint with pale reflected light.

He seemed a creature fall'n afar From some dim planet or faint star. Jane scanned him very close, and soon Cried, "'Tis the old man from the moon."

He raised his voice, a grating creak, But only to himself would speak. Groaning with tears in piteous pain, "O! O! would I were home again."

Then Jane ran off, quick as she could, To cheer his heart with drink and food. But ah, too late came ale and bread, She found the poor soul stretched stone-dead. And a new moon rode overhead.

VAIN AND CARELESS.

Lady, lovely lady, Careless and gay! Once when a beggar called She gave her child away.

The beggar took the baby, Wrapped it in a shawl, "Bring her back," the lady said, "Next time you call."

Hard by lived a vain man, So vain and so proud, He walked on stilts To be seen by the crowd.

Up above the chimney pots, Tall as a mast, And all the people ran about Shouting till he passed.