CLV THE THREE FISHERS Three fishers went sailing away to the west, Each thought on the woman who loved him best, town; For men must work, and women must weep, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep, Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. C. Kingsley CLVI ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY The post-boy drove with fierce career, Was smitten with a startling sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,-and more and more; At length I to the boy call'd out; The boy then smack'd his whip, and fast Forthwith alighting on the ground, 'Whence comes,' said I, 'that piteous moan?' And there a little girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise alone. 'My cloak!' no other word she spake, As if her innocent heart would break; 'What ails you, child?'--she sobb'd, 'Look here!' I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, 'And whither are you going, child, Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 'My child, in Durham do you dwell?' 'And I to Durham, sir, belong? The chaise drove on; our journey's end Up to the tavern door we post; 'And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell !' W. Wordsworth CLVII THE FIRST SWALLOW The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and, beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath, of May. The welcome guest of settled Spring, Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the grey dawn of day. C. Smith CLVIII THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD They grew in beauty side by side, The same fond mother bent at night One, midst the forests of the West, The Indian knows his place of rest, The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one— One sleeps where Southern vines are drest He wrapt his colours round his breast, And one-o'er her the myrtle showers |