The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) ::

He pass'd the tinkling camels, pass'd
The wayside wells, the glimmering grates
Of garden walls, the palm-trees mass'd
Round Bagdadt's murmurous gates.

III

The merchants from Bassora stared
And of his wares would question him,
But, without answer, on he fared
Into the evening dim.

IV

His cheek was worn, his back bent double
Beneath the iron chest it bore,
And in his walk there was the trouble
Of one whose feet are sore.

V

You wonder'd if he ever had
A settled home, a wife, a child.
You marvell'd if a face so sad
At any time had smiled.

VI

To him the pitying housewife oft
Flung alms, but he limp'd heedless by;
The children pelted him and scoff'd,
Yet fear'd,—they knew not why.

VII

Thro' the dark doorway of the maid
Loose from her lingering lover ran,
And, with a frighten'd whisper, said
‘There walks the haunted man!’

VIII

The traveller hail'd him oft ‘Goodnight!
The town is far, the road is lone.
God speed!’ Already out of sight
The wayfarer was gone.

IX

But when the night was late and still,
And only thro' the darkness crept
The hungry wild beast from the hill,
He laid him down, and slept.

X

His head on that strong box he laid;
And there, beneath the star-clear skies,
Or in the jungle's giant shade,
There rose before his eyes.

XI

A lovely dream, a vision fair,
Of some far off forgotten land,
And a white girl with golden hair
And wild flowers in her hand.

XII

He sprang to clasp her. ‘Ah, once more
‘Return, beloved, and bring with thee
The glory and the grace of yore,
And all that was to be!’

XIII

Ere she could answer, o'er his back
There fell a sharp and sudden stroke,
And, smarting sore, the wretch, alack,
Most wretchedly awoke.

XIV

There comes from out that iron chest
A hideous hag, a hateful crone.
With lifted crutch, and scurvey jest,
She beats him to the bone.

XV

‘Thou lazy scatterling! come, budge,
And carry me again!’ she says.
‘Not half the journey's over. Trudge!’
He groans, but he obeys.

XVI

Oft in the sea he sought to fling
That iron chest. But witches swim;
And wave and wind were sure to bring
The old hag back to him,

XVII

Who all the more. . . . . But, O my love,
Thou know'st the rest! Thou know'st it all.
Return! return! where e'er I rove,
And whatsoe'er befall,

XVIII

I heed not, if thou still. . . . Behold,
With surly crutch uplifted high
The angry hag begins to scold!
Ah, yet we might. . . . . Good-bye!

University of Virginia Library

THE PEDLAR.

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