 | Collected poems |  |
151
MY LANDLADY
A small brisk woman, capped with many a bow;
“Yes,” so she says, “and younger, too, than some,”
Who bids me, bustling, “God speed,” when I go,
And gives me, rustling, “Welcome,” when I come.
“Yes,” so she says, “and younger, too, than some,”
Who bids me, bustling, “God speed,” when I go,
And gives me, rustling, “Welcome,” when I come.
“Ay, sir, 'tis cold,—and freezing hard,—they say;
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit—
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit.”
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit—
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit.”
A musky haunt of lavender and shells,
Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays—
A life's collection—where each object tells
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:—
Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays—
A life's collection—where each object tells
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:—
A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp;
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;
152
A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set,
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,
With yellow writing faded underneath.
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,
With yellow writing faded underneath.
Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—
Wide-collared, raven-haired. “Yes, 'tis my son!”
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—
Wide-collared, raven-haired. “Yes, 'tis my son!”
“Where is he?” “Ah, sir, he is dead—my boy!
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head—my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head—my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.
“There were two souls washed overboard, they said,
And one the waves brought back; but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head;
The sea was running wildly;—he was left.
And one the waves brought back; but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head;
The sea was running wildly;—he was left.
“He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know,
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God,—though 'twas so long ago,—
He did not struggle much before he died.
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God,—though 'twas so long ago,—
He did not struggle much before he died.
153
“'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought,—
Or would have brought—my poor deserted boy!
And these the words the agents sent—they thought
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.
Or would have brought—my poor deserted boy!
And these the words the agents sent—they thought
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.
“Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more:
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,—
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,—
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote.
“Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you;—
Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:
We can't mourn much, who have much work to do;—
Your fire is bright Thank God, I have my health!”
Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:
We can't mourn much, who have much work to do;—
Your fire is bright Thank God, I have my health!”
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