University of Virginia Library

All the young folks on Boxing Day
Were to go some ten miles away
To races held at Linlithgow,
A township with a hut or two,
A state school and a public-house
Of functions rather various,
Post office, tavern, forge, and store.

Will said at breakfast, “Four or more
Will have to ride, the waggonette
Although it's pretty roomy, yet
Can't very well accommodate
More than the luncheon-things and eight.
Butters will ride on just ahead
To let us through the gates, and spread
The tablecloth and knives and forks,
And open tins and draw the corks.
Who is for riding?” “I,” said Phil,
And Albert Hall and Kit and Lil,
And the Professor, who confessed
That his seat was not of the best,
And asked to have a quiet horse.
Will answered gracefully, “Of course
I never give a horse that kicks
Or ‘bucks’ or has uncertain tricks
To any man until I ken
How he can ride, and never then
Unless he asks me, or we're short
Of nags. I think the so-called sport
Of putting new-chums on a brute
That bucks is cowardice absolute.
I don't think that we have a beast
About the place that bucks the least,
Except the grey Miss Johnstone picks.
Lil's chestnut shies but never kicks.”

The riders started none too soon
At ten to reach the course by noon:
The ride itself amidst the trees,
Across bush paddocks, could but please.
But three at least of the cortege
Were chafing if not in a rage.
Not the Professor and not Kit,
Who rode exchanging shafts of wit,
And making the whole forest ring
With laughter blithe, or noticing
The glory of the summer morn
Through the thin gum-tree foliage borne,
But Phil and Lil and Albert Hall
Woefully disconcerted all
At this unlooked-for partnership.
Lil had looked forward to a trip
With the Professor tête-à-tête,
Knowing the admiration great
Her brother Phil had always had
For dashing Kit, since quite a lad,
And that the bushman in his way
Liked well enough with her to stay;
And Phil and Hall had reckoned on
Choosing their own companion.
As Lil anticipated, they
From the Professor held away,
But then he was with Kit, not her,
And Phil had not a character
For taking disappointments well,
And muttered hints about ‘a sell.’
And ladies Hall scarce understood
Unless they sunk their womanhood
In masculine proclivities.
And so they rode in silence wise
With ennui undiversified,
Save when Lil's horse was scared and shied
Because a wounded wallaby
Sprung almost at its feet to fly.
Her fearlessness and skill combined
Astonished those who thought to find
A timid rider in the form
Which cringed so from the thunderstorm,
And Cobham, as they rode behind,
Revealed to Kit his puzzled mind.
“Lil's a conundrum,” answered she,
“She'll pick a snake up fearlessly
To dash its head against a tree,
And run in terror from a cow
As tame as those we passed just now.”

At length they rode up to the course,
An unfenced clearing where a horse
Could only know the track because
'Twas clear enough to let him pass.
A few drink-shanties and a box
Built for the judge of redgum blocks,
With sundry poor time-honoured shows
Alone beside the “paddock” rose
To stamp the race-course. There were few
Bookmakers, the bookmaking crew
Flying at higher game elsewhere.
The horsey, noisy talent here
Was chiefly local. Then there were
Owners of horses, stable boys
And station-hands, who made much noise
Of a good-humoured hearty sort,
And shewed keen relish of the sport,
But did not drink as people do
In England, or “knock down their screw”
For a whole year like those who've been
On far-back stations Riverine.

Being bred up a Londoner,
Though he'd spent much of ev'ry year
Out in the country, Cobham knew
Little of horses but the two
That brought her carriage every day
To take his mother out, and they
When they had brought her home at night
Dropped as completely from his sight
Until the morrow afternoon
As if they stabled in the moon.
And therefore he paid far more heed
To lunch and lady than to steed,
But not to Kit instinctively,
For she had neither ear nor eye
For anything but boy and horse
When she was once upon the course,
And was so far preoccupied
As to let Phil usurp her side
And feast his eyes upon her charms
Without recourse to flight or arms.

It was not altogether chance
Or undesigned, the circumstance
That in their morning gallop there
Cobham had been Kit's cavalier,
For Kit, as has been said above,
Was a sworn Amazon, and love
Was not a topic she'd endure
From any man, nor was she sure,
What Phil's precise intentions were.
He certainly bestowed on her
More of his company and care
Than he was wont to give the fair,
And she had seen him more than once
Dart her a glance that might announce
A state of feelings that would be
Distasteful in the last degree,
If he were to interpret it
As seemed most likely to her wit.
And if they'd ridden tête-à-tête,
And then had chanced to separate
From their companions as they rode
Through the lone paddocks, with their blood
Excited by the exercise
And storm-cleared atmosphere, Phil's eyes,
Might have been warmly seconded
By words she'd rather keep unsaid,
And so she had condemned poor Lil
To penance between Hall and Phil.
But Lil could have her full reward
When they were once upon the sward,
For the Professor, as was said,
Had not been in the country bred,
And about horses knowing naught
Had not the interest he ought,
And Lil, although she'd always been
Much among horses, yet had seen
So much of racing and the best
That she took no great interest
In a bush-meeting, unless one
Of her friends' horses chanced to run,
And then just for the minute's space
Of the duration of the race.
Besides she looked much prettier,
As the Professor could aver,
Than he had seen her look before,
With a fresh rosy tint spread o'er
Her cheek, which sometimes, he'd confess,
Was just a shade too colourless.
Then the swift motion through the air
Had loosened a bright lock of hair,
And as, if fault in her you'd find,
She was a trifle too inclined
To slenderness, a habit made
Of soft grey “homespun” tweed displayed
Her figure at its best—the fit
Perfect enough for even Kit.

Lunch was a feature of the day,
Which Butters had been told to lay
As soon as he had fastened up
The nags and given them their sup.
The three seats of the waggonette
Could be detached, and they were set
Beneath a shady wattle tree,
So that each lady on her knee
Could take her lunch conveniently.
There was no lack of luxury,
For turkey, chicken, duck, and pie,
Were ranged before the luncher's eye,
Flanked with peach-tart, Madeira cake,
Plum pudding, shortbread (of Scotch make),
And summer fruit and clotted cream,
With champagne flowing in a stream
Exhaustless. Soon the ladies went
Satisfied to their heart's content,
Leaving their cavaliers at ease
To finish luncheon when they'd please.
The gentlemen had ‘jolly fun,’
For they were hungry everyone
And in high spirits. Chesterfield
Had the consummate art, concealed
Beneath his kindness, to appear
Contented with whatever cheer
Was set before him; honest Will,
Child-like, loved any outing still;
And the Professor, for his part,
A boon companion was at heart.

When they rejoined the ladies, he
Helped Lil to mount, a mystery
He did not clearly understand,
But took her dainty foot in hand
As cheerfully as if he knew
Exactly what he ought to do.
And then he mounted, and the two
Rode slowly round, outside the course,
Oblivious of friend or horse,
Until the crowd that went away
Proclaimed the finish of the day,
When they resought their friends in time
Not to be noticed much. To climb
Unaided to her saddle took
Kit scarce a moment, then she shook
Her reins and cantered up to Lil
And Cobham, leaving Hall and Phil
To join the three or ride apart
Just as it pleased them—in her heart
Dreading a ride with Phil alone
A good deal more than she had done
Before he'd drunk so much champagne,
And striven with his might and main
To make her day enjoyable.
She had not liked it half as well
As she was wont, from constant care
Lest he should take her unaware
When none were near her, and intrude
The question she would fain elude,
Of which th' attentions he had paid
Gave her fresh cause to be afraid.
So she was forced for her own sake
Lil's tête-à-tête once more to break,
For, as she feared, esprit de corps
Or dread of being deemed a bore
Might make Hall spur his horse away,
If he thought Phil had aught to say.

However, Lily Forte and she
Had wide enough diversity
In character to be fast friends,
And Kit strove hard to make amends
For her intrusion by the will
To set the Oxford man and Lil
Each in the other's graces good,
To take care that each understood
The other's merits. They went home
A good deal faster than they'd come,
And soon had cantered into view
Of Mr Forte's oak-avenue.

Doomed back again to the dull island life,
To be at best the oft-neglected wife
Of some sea-roving, rude Phaeacian.
Nor shall I hear the breakers plash, nor scan
One ship bound outwards in the twilight dim,
Without a pang of longing after him.

The island chiefs are seamen skilled and bold;
But when their feats in sea-craft have been told,
Their store of plundered wealth, their deeds of blood,
And some strange ventures on the Libyan flood,
There is not much made up unto their wives
For the unending sameness of their lives.

Had he but stayed, and had he not been wived,
How happy in his wedlock had I lived,
Watching him 'mid the heroes in the ring
Foremost in every art that fits a king,
And, when night drave us into the high hall,
Hearing fair words from out his wise lips fall,

Of how, beside their ships in front of Troy,
The common round of gain and strife and joy
For nine long years busied the Argive chiefs,
Varied with skirmishes and some few griefs,
As when a prince ventured in foraying
Too far, and fell to Paris's bowstring:

Then he would tell of that last crowning year
When all things boded that the end drew near,
Of Hector's death and Paris' poisoned wound,
And how the kindly Menelaus found
And took his fair wife to himself again;
And lastly of his own hap on the main,—

Of his escape from sunborn Circe's isle,
And from divine Calypso's love and guile,
Of Polyphemus and the Laestrygons,
And of the Sirens and the whitening bones—
His shipwreck, his stern struggle with the sea,
And how that he looked lovingly on me

From the first sight! How happy had I been
If fate had given me to be his queen,
To cherish him whose prudent counsels won
The overthrow of godlike Ilion,
Who hath been in his very miseries
The love of nymphs and care of goddesses!

But he hath passed away into the night,
Lost to our vision like the goodly light.
The light may come again on isle and sea,
But never the same perfect light to me,
In that my heart is darkened, and mine eyes
Will all things through his image see, veil-wise.

Helen, the daughter of King Tyndareus,
Or, as some say, of Ægis-bearing Zeus,
Had lived in Sparta many a goodly day
Ere the east wind blew down from Phrygia
Paris the fair, and many days lived she
In golden friendship free from taint, and free
With Paris and her husband afterward,
Until the son of Atreus went aboard
His swift black ship and sailed to far-off isles,
And there abode, leaving his wife long whiles
With Priam's godlike son (whether it was
By Aphrodite's lure, or for some cause
Of high state-policy or gain, or both).
The Queen to lose her lord was passing loath,
And fell to weeping, till the Phrygian
To soothe with words of comforting began,
And then was so insistent, that he must
Be as insistent to fulfil the trust
Of cherishing the dame, which the Greek King
Had laid upon his honour at parting,
In nowise dreaming of the afterhap
That Nemesis bare for him in her lap,
But full of tenderness for the young wife
Whom he was leaving, lest her daily life
Should be a prey to loneliness and tears,
And, as men oft in their preventing fears
Prevent their hopes, so did the Spartan King.
For, after the first days of sorrowing,
Helen began to look with grateful eyes
Upon his youth, who in such tender wise
Had healed her sorrows, nor was gratitude
Long ere it did descry in what it viewed
Fair lineaments and princely qualities,
Such as few men in any man despise,
And least of all a woman, who has been
Won by those very graces from her teen.
And thus these two lived joyously each day,
Wiling the swift-winged golden hours away,
Charmed by each other's gifts, as by a spell.
Helen, as woman, could but note too well
Him unto whom her least wish was a care
Like a behest from heaven, and compare
The goodliness of shape, the fair bright hair,
Fair face, swift feet, and skill in archery,
Which made him with far-darting Phœbus vie,
Against the simple worth of her own lord
Who, in the melée staunch and staunch in word,
Was yet none such as the Pergamian Prince,
Nor in such courtier-fashion could evince
The great, true love he bare her in his soul.
And, as for Paris, how should he control
His eyes from looking on the loveliness
That with its presence all his days did bless
And made his earth a heaven—not that he thought
In those first days of doing wrong in aught
Unto the son of Atreus; nor did he deem
That such things would be. Nathless in a dream
It seemed that Aphrodite to him came,
And, garlanding a crown of amber flame
Around the sleeping princess where she lay,
Set him to thinking of that other day
When he bestowed the apple upon her,
And she on him had promised to confer
The fairest of fair women on the earth,
And set him thinking if for grace and worth
And tenderness and beauty and all love,
A goodlier dwelt e'en in the Paphian grove,
And set him thinking if it were not this
The goddess gave him in her promises.
And then he woke and to himself thus spake:
“Certes, great shame were on me did I break
The trust that Menelaus laid on me.
But he has passed over the pitiless sea
To far-off isles, and may not ever come
Back to the haven of his high-roofed home,
And meanwhile godlike Helen pines alone:
I cannot stay here always and anon,
When I have sailed she will be left a prey
To the rude chieftains, who will on her lay
Hot impious hands and hasten to divide
The kingdom as a spoil. Better my bride
Were she than suffer such a cruel woe.
Yes! Menelaus will not come back now,
Being so long gone, and I too must be gone,
Leaving the tender Queen thus doubly lone.”

With such and such words to himself he glozed,
While Helen on her lonely couch reposed
And dreamed ('twas Aphrodite moved the queen,
So sung old poets) of what might have been
Had she met Priam's son in the old days,
How what would now be shame might have been praise,
And she been wedded to this peerless knight
Bright in the hair, bright in the face, and bright
In all that fills a house with joy and light,
And yet no woman but an archer bold,
His own well able in the field to hold
With all the Spartan princes, and in speed
Matched to outrun the boar, if there were need,
On Mount Täygetus. And then she woke
And chid herself for murmurs which she spoke
Unto herself while dreaming. But it chanced
That as she glid into the hall, she glanced
On Paris, while he chid himself likewise.
And lo it came to pass that when their eyes
Met, all the chidings vanished, and straightway
They thought but of the goodliness which they
Looked on in one another, and their hearts
Mingled, and, heedless of dread Hera's darts,
Who sanctifieth marriage, and the wrath
Of Menelaus, stepped on to the path,
Which leads through halls and gardens of delight
Down to the black abyss, and on that night
And many another after, took deep draughts
Of passion's magic cup, until the shafts
Of Eos drove the friendly shades away.

But last of all there came the hateful day,
Put back how often, when he needs must sail
Back to the Ilian shore, when favouring gale
And low waves and propitious augury
Conspired to bid the wanderer to sea,
And even Paris durst no longer stay
Lest Zeus himself should chafe at his delay.
And so he called his Trojans, and gave word
That on the morrow he would go aboard
And hoise sail for the Troad. Whereat they
Shouted with joy, seeing that many a day
It had been their desire once more to come
Unto the softer living of their home,
Its rich broad meadows and its goodly trees,
Its wealth and well-built houses; for of these
Small store was there at Sparta, great and strong
In heroes as she was. Then all day long
He and fair Helen gave themselves to love,
Although at first he took good heart and strove
To bid her his farewell, and swiftly go
Down to his ships to spread all sail and row
Beyond the reach of ill. But still she clung
Close unto him, and on his shoulder hung,
And whispered that the summer sun was slow
In making home, and that fair winds would blow
For long days yet, and that the seas in June
Were softer than a summer afternoon.
Then wherefore haste to stand to sea that day?
Or, if that day, why row the bark away
Before the sun's wrath softened and the eve
Stole down the sky the rowers to relieve
With calm and cool? And even as she spake
She heaved up sighs as though the parting brake
Her heartstrings, and her white hands garlanded
About his neck, pressing her golden head
Against his shoulder lovingly. But he
Read in his heart a sullen augury
Of threatening ill, and, deeming that he might
Avert their consummation by swift flight,
Turned a deaf ear to her most moving pray'rs,
And to assist the seamen in their cares
For watering and provision, forthwith passed
Down to his fleet black ship. But at the last,
When all things needful were within the hold,
In glitter of her beauty and red gold
Came peerless Helen, with a goodly train
Of virgins in bright raiment, Tyrian
Sea-purple or vermilion, whom she
Left standing by the ship's side on the quay,
And herself stepping on an outspread cloak,
Which one who seemed a ruler of ship-folk
Strewed for her slim, white, daintily-sandalled feet,
His homage with soft courtesy did greet,
And asked for Paris, safe voyage and God-speed
Wishing to bid him, and see if indeed
He was for sailing, and, when he had come,
Spake unto him of speeding to his home,
And, bidding him farewell in accents clear,
That all the folk who stood about might hear,
When they set up their din of loud applause,
Whispered to him to plead some specious cause
And stave the sailing off but for one day,
But for the night. Yet still he said her nay
In that he feared to. And then she again,
Seeing that Paris dared not to remain,
Gathered a desperate courage from despair,
And, flinging off all wifely shame and care
In the fierce love that lorded o'er her heart,
And, reckoning life naught should he depart
And leave her lonely in the bronze-sheathed house,
Whispered to him in accents tremulous
And passionate that, when she gave the word,
He should his faulchion draw and cut the cord
Which moored the ship and put straight out to sea
And carry her with him, and said that she
Would so dispose her train that none should be
Able to raise a finger in despite
When that she gave the signal for their flight.
And so it fell: for, bidding virgins twain
To stay by her, she bade the rest to gain
The homestead with all haste, and bring from thence
A milk-white steer with gilt horns and incense
For sacrifice and banquet, and rich wine
To win with gifts the clemency divine
Of King Poseidon, and to hold high feast
In honour of their parting, ancient guest.
And, when that they were gone, and as she thought
Come to the house, she turned about and sought
Paris, and he, although his heart waxed chill
Beneath the same presentiment of ill,
Bade to let go, and the huge galley leapt,
Like a loosed dog, from out the pier, and swept
With stately swing of deftly fitted oars
And swell of purple sails, and with bright spores
Of phosphorescent water sprinkled back
As the swift prow sped on its gleaming track,
And with rich strains of flutes and wafts of spice
Breathed from the poop moulded with some device
Of the Dædalian art, straight out to sea.
And those two sate together lovingly
Beneath an awning of thick web, with sides
Curtained from view, three golden eventides
And morningtides. And for the time great joy
Was theirs, but tempered with a dull alloy
Of aguish misgivings, and remorse,
Which sits behind the rider on the horse
Of pleasure when he tramples 'neath the hoofs
Another's paradise. And now the roofs
Upon the shore began to fade from view,
And they were left between the nether blue
And upper, without aught within their sight
To break the ring of azure, save the flight
Of wingèd fish escaping from the jaws
Of the bonitos to the expectant maws
Of hovering snowy sea birds, till the isles
With which the glorious Ægæan smiles
Fronted the flying bark, and made them heed
Unto their helm and move with minished speed.
And so they came to Troy one summer day,
And long whiles ere they passed right up the bay,
Through the shrouds looking, Helen did she list
Could see the shore's grey outline, dimmed with mist
As by a mist of tears or by a dream—
So in her ecstasy it well might seem.
But when they drew up to the quays of Troy
The city folk met them with hail of joy,
Seeing the well-known sails which they had deemed
Would never come again, and all men streamed
Down from the seaward gate unto the quay,
And women too, bareheaded, fired to see
The darling of their city once again,
Him who had been the brightest of all men,
Swiftest in chace, and surest with the bow,
And who had scouted every thought of woe,
Making the townsmen glad and of good heart,
Ready to play a gallant manly part,
On field or wall against the enemy.
This was the Paris of their memory,
Not like the after Paris, weak with sin,
Careless of all things so that he might win
Another hour with Helen, unashamed,
Though worsted in the fight, and world-wide blamed
As coward, miscreant, and city curse,
And basest knight of all the universe.

And when they looked on Helen, every shout
Doubled itself and brought even elders out
To see what good it should be that could raise
An outburst so beyond the wont of praise.
Such infinite grace was in her visage seen
To gladden eyes of men, and all her mien
So gentle, godlike, marvellously bright,
That all their hearts clave unto her outright;
Nor did she ever fall from that high state,
But men were glad to meet their bitter fate
For her sake till the city fell. Such love
Had the gods deigned her in all hearts to move.

So they went up to Ilion, and the crowd
Followed with glee and joyous shoutings, proud
Of their long-lost and late-recovered chief
And his fair bride, and dreaming not that grief
Out of such joyful auspices should come.
And thus Queen Helen came to her new home.

He ceased mid acclamation—all
Listening to the fate and fall
Of Helen with attention wrapt,
And one there thinking how it happed
That he had had a Helen too,
A Helen who was fair to view,
And loved by all who looked on her
For womanly soft character,
With woman's steel devotion mixed,
And who her love unfaltering fixed
On him, although he lived away
For years as many as Greece lay
Before the ramparts of Troy town,
A Helen who had never known
A Paris—with clear sapphire eyes
Which never bent in loving wise
On any eyes but his, with hair,
So beautifully waved and fair,
Which never felt a coaxing hand
Save his, who left her native land
To share his exile and new home,
And not, like the first Helen, roam
To leave her husband. Helen Forte,
Wholly unconscious of the thought
Which flitted through her husband's brain,
Was thinking in a thankful strain
How merciful it was that she
Had ne'er been left by fate to be
Tempted like her fair eponym,
Not counting her long wait for him
As aught. So potent is the spell
Cast over women who love well.

Nor were the two old folks alone
Moved by the evening's tales, for one
Had listened to Nausicaa's grief
On learning that the island-chief
Was wedded, and would sail away
Not without picturing a day
When she herself might sadly gaze
Toward the dim horizon's haze.
This story of Nausicaa
Planted the embryo of dismay
In her soft heart, though she cared not,
So she assured herself, one jot
For the Professor. Yet she knew,
And swiftly the conviction grew,
That did she learn that he was wed
A load of disappointment dead
Would press on her, that when he went
The gentle hours of content
Would take wing with him. Margaret,
Although she understood not yet
Much of the meaning of the tale
Of Spartan Helen, did not fail
To sympathize with her as one
On whom much woe would fall anon.
And practical Maud Morrison
Made up her mind that she would ne'er
Herself as witlessly ensnare
As the Greek Queen pourtrayed therein,
The type of beauty in soft sin,
With no fault but her frailties,
To bards of thirty centuries.

The dancing flagged that night because
Phil, who had waltzed with scarce a pause
On yule night with Maud Morrison,
Was so unsettled by the tone
Kit had maintained while going to
And coming back from Linlithgow,
Though she was his companion
Through the delicious afternoon,
That he was fain to spend the night
In hanging by her side to right
That which was keeping them apart,
Not knowing in his blinded heart
That he was wooing his ill-fate
By striving to ingratiate.
“Leave well alone” 's a proverb old,
And truly, if the truth were told,
“Leave everything alone” should be
A proverb too. The more that we
Multiply schemes and work we do
Multiply our misfortunes too.
The worst misfortunes of my life
I've brought down on my head by strife,
To lessen or to obviate
Misfortunes of a lighter weight
Which I anticipated and
Which would have, had I held my hand,
By a mysterious Power, been
Diverted from me (as I've seen
By the event). And thus poor Phil
Forced on his crisis. Pretty Lil
And the Professor somehow found
That although waltzing round and round
Has its own pleasures, maid and man
By sitting still together can
Equal, if not more joy obtain:
So they too left the mazy train,
And as young ladies entertain
A fear that if, e'en once they let
A man not in their dancing set
Dance with them much, because there are
None of the real caviare
At hand, they afterwards may find
The barrier thus undermined
Hard to shore up to its old strength,
Poor Maud was satisfied at length
That she would have no dance that night:
So, wearing an expression bright
Which did not in the least express
Her frame of mind, she went to press
Her services on Mrs Forte
As the musician, cutting short
Remonstrance with insistance stern
That she must be allowed her turn
Or could not bear to dance again.
A threefold end did she attain
By this manœuvre. Firstly, she
Did honestly desire to be
Considerate; and secondly,
It saved her having to comply
With undesirable requests
For dances, which good taste's behests
Would not permit her to refuse;
And thirdly, 'twould be an excuse
If while she stayed there, she should chance
Again to deprecate a dance.
And further she could play so well
That, like most people who excel,
It flattered her to thus display
Her skill. And playing chased away
The demonry of jealousy
Which haunted her when Phil stood by
The Queenly Kit, who, ill at ease
With his mistimed attempts to please,
Was scarce her royal self that night,
Though she made some few sallies bright,
But occupied with all her strength
In keeping him at sword-arm's length.
The dancing lapsed, and left therewith
Maud to the clutch of Lachlan Smith,
And Hall and Will in sheer despair
Taking to billiards;—the whole air
Was thundercharged with discontent.

Meanwhile the very contrast lent
Fresh graces to the laughing girl,
Baring a gleaming rim of pearl
At each fresh anecdote and jest
Related to her with such zest
By the Professor, who began
To feel himself a happier man
When good hap let him wile away
An hour alone in converse gay
With this warm-hearted gentle fay.

It certainly beatifies
Those who are not too worldly-wise
To have bright tender maiden's eyes
Sharing one's gaze at everything,
And white hands always dallying
Before one; and it pleases well
If, when one has a tale to tell,
A pretty Lil with little ear
Is stretched on the “qui vive” to hear
Each word one says; nor does one's mind,
If not too seriously inclined,
Object to a companion graced
With girlhood's flower, summer-faced
And sunny-haired and fairy-light,
Though not below the middle height.