 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
Such was the hour—hour sacred and apart—
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronouuced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way.
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing, vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,
And the strong arm dropt nerveless. What of that?
There was a treasure hidden in his hat,
A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest, the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of nought
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,
When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer,
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.
Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart.
Summer and winter, as his toil he plied,
To him and his the literal doom applied,
Pronouuced on Adam. But the bread was sweet
So earned for such dear mouths. The weary feet,
Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way.
So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray
That time I tell of. He had worked all day
At a great clearing, vigorous stroke on stroke
Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke,
And the strong arm dropt nerveless. What of that?
There was a treasure hidden in his hat,
A plaything for the young ones. He had found
A dormouse nest, the living ball coiled round
For its long winter sleep; and all his thought,
As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of nought
But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes,
And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise,
204
Hard won, the frozen captive to their care.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |