“God bless you, Pop’m, and forgive me!—This is my husband.” The newcomer, Mr. Stanley, reached and grasped the hand of Mr. Twiggs, eagerly, fervidly, albeit the face he looked on then will haunt him to the hour of his death.—Yet haply, some day, when the Master takes the selfsame hand within his own and whispers, “Tude’s come home,” the old smile will return. DOLORES Lithe-armed, and with satin-soft shoulders As white as the cream-crested wave; With a gaze dazing every beholder’s, She holds every gazer a slave: Her hair, a fair haze, is outfloated And flared in the air like a flame; Bare-breasted, bare-browed and bare-throated— Too smooth for the soothliest name. She wiles you with wine, and wrings for you Ripe juices of citron and grape; She lifts up her lute and sings for you Till the soul of you seeks no escape; And you revel and reel with mad laughter, And fall at her feet, at her beck, And the scar of her sandal thereafter You wear like a gyve round your neck. WHEN I DO MOCK When I do mock the blackness of the night With my despair—outweep the very dews And wash my wan cheeks stark of all delight, Denying every counsel of dear use In mine embittered state; with infinite Perversity, mine eyes drink in no sight Of pleasance that nor moon nor stars refuse In silver largess and gold twinklings bright;— I question me what mannered brain is mine That it doth trick me of the very food It panteth for—the very meat and wine That yet should plump my starved soul with good And comfortable plethora of ease, That I might drowse away such rhymes as these. MY MARY My Mary, O my Mary! The simmer skies are blue: The dawnin’ brings the dazzle, An’ the gloamin’ brings the dew,— The mirk o’ nicht the glory O’ the moon, an’ kindles, too, The stars that shift aboon the lift.— But naething brings me you! Where is it, O my Mary, Ye are biding a’ the while? I ha’ wended by your window— I ha’ waited by the stile, An’ up an’ down the river I ha’ won for mony a mile, Yet never found, adrift or drown’d, Your lang-belated smile. Is it forgot, my Mary, How glad we used to be?— The simmer-time when bonny bloomed The auld trysting-tree,— How there I carved the name for you, An’ you the name for me; An’ the gloamin’ kenned it only When we kissed sae tenderly. Speek ance to me, my Mary!— But whisper in my ear As light as ony sleeper’s breath, An’ a’ my soul will hear; My heart shall stap its beating, An’ the soughing atmosphere Be hushed the while I leaning smile An’ listen to you, dear! My Mary, O my Mary! The blossoms bring the bees; The sunshine brings the blossoms, An’ the leaves on a’ the trees; The simmer brings the sunshine An’ the fragrance o’ the breeze,— But O wi’out you, Mary, I care naething for these!