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Close the door, the shutters close,
Come away; no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
Come away; for Life and Thought
But in a city glorious
A great and distant city-have bought
Would they could have stayed with us.
OR, THE LAKE.
O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake,
Of city life! I was a sketcher then;
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,
O me! my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull, The curate; he was fatter than his cure.
But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own, I called him Crichton, for he seemed All-perfect, finished to the finger nail.
And once I asked him of his early life,
My love for Nature is as old as I; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. My love for Nature and my love for her, Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful. To some full music rose and sank the sun, And some full music seemed to move and change With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day between; For daily hope fulfilled, to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe."
Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull,
"I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways
Seem but the theme of writers, and, indeed,
"Parson,” said I, "you pitch the pipe too low; But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his; Though if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear other music; yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream?” I asked him half-sardonically.
Give all thou art," he answered, and a light
I would have hid her needle in my heart,
Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did? but something jarred; Whether he spoke too largely; that there seemed A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness; howsoe'er it was, He scarcely hit my humor, and I said :—
"Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone
I have, I think,-Heaven knows,-as much within;
So spoke I, knowing not the things that were. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull: "God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and increase of the world." And I and Edwin laughed; and now we paused About the windings of the marge to hear The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms And alders, garden-isles; and now we left The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, Delighted with the freshness and the sound.
But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had withered, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rent-roll Cupid of our rainy isles. 'Tis true we met; one hour I had, no more, She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit, The close "Your Letty, only yours;" and this Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran My craft aground, and heard with beating heart The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel; And out I stept, and up I crept; she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers; Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she, She turned, we closed, we kissed, swore faith, I breathed
In some new planet; a silent cousin stole
I brave the worst;" and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yelled within, and out they came, Trustees and aunts and uncles. "What, with him!" "Go" (shrilled the cotton-spinning chorus), " him!" I choked. Again they shrieked the burthen "Him!"
Again with hands of wild rejection, "Go!-
I turned once more, close-buttoned to the storm;
Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago