East wind! sob eerily! sing, kettle! cheerily! Baby's abed,--but its father will rock it; Little ones boast your permission to toast The cake that good fellow brought home in his pocket. This greeting the silent old Clerk understands,-- His friends he can love, had he foes, he could mock them; So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,-- Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them. And Darby, at least, is resigned to his lot, And Joan, rather proud of the sphere he's adorning, Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot, And _he_ won't recall it till ten the next morning. A kindly good man, quite a stranger to fame, His heart still is green, though his head shows a hoar lock; Perhaps his particular star is to blame,-- It may be, he never took time by the forelock. A day must arrive when, in pitiful case, He will drop from his Branch, like a fruit more than mellow; Is he yet to be found in his usual place? Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow? If still at his duty he soon will arrive,-- He passes this turning because it is shorter,-- If not within sight as the clock's striking five, We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter. A WISH. To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew, A pair of child-lovers I've seen, More than once were they there, and the years of the two, When added, might number thirteen. They sat on the grave that has never a stone The name of the dead to determine, It was Life paying Death a brief visit--alone A notable text for a sermon. They tenderly prattled; what was it they said? The turf on that hillock was new; Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead, Or could he be heedful of you? I wish to believe, and believe it I must, Her father beneath them was laid: I wish to believe,--I will take it on trust, That father knew all that they said. My own, you are five, very nearly the age Of that poor little fatherless child: And some day a true-love your heart will engage, When on earth I my last may have smiled. Then visit my grave, like a good little lass, Where'er it may happen to be, And if any daisies should peer through the grass, Be sure they are kisses from me. And place not a stone to distinguish my name, For strangers to see and discuss: But come with your lover, as these lovers came, And talk to him sweetly of _us_. And while you are smiling, your father will smile Such a dear little daughter to have, But mind,--O yes, mind you are happy the while-- _I wish you to visit my Grave_. THE JESTER'S PLEA. These verses were published in 1862, in a volume of Poems by several hands, entitled "An Offering to Lancashire."