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• 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 Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say,
God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world.'
• Parson' said I'you pitch the pipe too low : But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his : Tho'if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce have other music : yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream ?' I ask'd him half-sardonically.
Give? Give all thou art' he answer'd, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; · I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear Her lightest breaths : her least remark was worth The experience of the wise. I went and came; Her voice fled always thro' the summer land; I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days !
The flower of each, those moments when we met, The crown of all, we met to part no more.'
Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; Whether he spoke too largely ; that there seem’d A touch of something false, some self-conceit, Or over-smoothness : howsoe'er it was, He scarcely hit my humour, and I said :
'Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left ? But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein : I have, I think,-Heaven knows—as much within ; Have, or should have, but for a thought or two, That like a purple beech among the greens Looks out of place : ’tis from no want in her : It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, Or something of a wayward modern mind Dissecting passion. Time will set me right.'
So spoke I knowing not the things that were.
About the windings of the marge to hear
But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk, The rentroll 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 turn’d, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed In some new planet : a silent cousin stole Upon us and departed : ‘Leave' she cried O leave me!' 'Never, dearest, never : here I brave the worst :' and while we stood like fools Embracing, all at once a score of pugs And poodles yelld within, and out they came
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. “What, with him !
Nor cared to hear ? perhaps : yet long ago
ST. SIMEON STYLITES.
Altho' I be the basest of mankind,
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,