Chapter 5 Mifflin.

* * *

Childhood.

Old Sorrow I shall meet again,

And Joy, perchance-but never, never,

Happy Childhood, shall we twain

See each other's face forever!

And yet I would not call thee back,

Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me,

Thine old companion, on the rack

Of Age, should sadden even thee.

J.B. Tabb.

* * *

Little Boy Blue.[10]

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and stanch he stands;

And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new

And the soldier was passing fair,

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,

"And don't you make any noise!"

So toddling off to his trundle-bed

He dreampt of the pretty toys.

And as he was dreaming, an angel song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue,-

Oh, the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place,

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face.

And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,

In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue

Since he kissed them and put them there.

E. Field.

[10] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

Strong as Death.[11]

O death, when thou shalt come to me

From out thy dark, where she is now,

Come not with graveyard smell on thee,

Or withered roses on thy brow.

Come not, O Death, with hollow tone,

And soundless step, and clammy hand-

Lo, I am now no less alone

Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

But with that sweet and subtle scent

That ever clung about her (such

As with all things she brushed was blent);

And with her quick and tender touch.

With the dim gold that lit her hair,

Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread

So light that I may dream her there,

And turn upon my dying bed.

And through my chilling veins shall flame

My love, as though beneath her breath;

And in her voice but call my name,

And I will follow thee, O Death.

H.C. Bunner.

[11] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896 by Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

The White Jessamine.

I knew she lay above me,

Where the casement all the night

Shone, softened with a phosphor glow

Of sympathetic light,

And that her fledgling spirit pure

Was pluming fast for flight.

Each tendril throbbed and quickened

As I nightly climbed apace,

And could scarce restrain the blossoms

When, anear the destined place,

Her gentle whisper thrilled me

Ere I gazed upon her face.

I waited, darkling, till the dawn

Should touch me into bloom,

While all my being panted

To outpour its first perfume,

When, lo! a paler flower than mine

Had blossomed in the gloom!

J.B. Tabb.

* * *

The House of Death.

Not a hand has lifted the latchet

Since she went out of the door-

No footstep shall cross the threshold,

Since she can come in no more.

There is rust upon locks and hinges,

And mold and blight on the walls,

And silence faints in the chambers,

And darkness waits in the halls-

Waits as all things have waited

Since she went, that day of spring,

Borne in her pallid splendor

To dwell in the Court of the King:

With lilies on brow and bosom,

With robes of silken sheen,

And her wonderful, frozen beauty,

The lilies and silk between.

Red roses she left behind her,

But they died long, long ago

'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom

That seemed through the dusk to glow.

The garments she left mock the shadows

With hints of womanly grace,

And her image swims in the mirror

That was so used to her face.

The birds make insolent music

Where the sunshine riots outside,

And the winds are merry and wanton

With the summer's pomp and pride.

But into this desolate mansion,

Where Love has closed the door,

Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter,

Since she can come in no more.