And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood Before me robed in broadcloth and brocade And all the nameless grace of Beadlehood! I would not smile at ye—if smile I could Now as erewhile, ere I had learn’d to sigh: Ah, no! I know ye beautiful and good, And evermore will pause as I pass by, And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I. WAITING. “O COME, O come,” the mother pray’d And hush’d her babe: “let me behold Once more thy stately form array’d Like autumn woods in green and gold! “I see thy brethren come and go; Thy peers in stature, and in hue Thy rivals. Same like monarchs glow With richest purple: some are blue “As skies that tempt the swallow back; Or red as, seen o’er wintry seas, The star of storm; or barr’d with black And yellow, like the April bees. “Come they and go! I heed not, I. Yet others hail their advent, cling All trustful to their side, and fly Safe in their gentle piloting “To happy homes on heath or hill, By park or river. Still I wait And peer into the darkness: still Thou com’st not—I am desolate. “Hush! hark! I see a towering form! From the dim distance slowly roll’d It rocks like lilies in a storm, And O, its hues are green and gold: “It comes, it comes! Ah rest is sweet, And there is rest, my babe, for us!” She ceased, as at her very feet Stopp’d the St. John’s Wood omnibus. PLAY. PLAY, play, while as yet it is day: While the sweet sunlight is warm on the brae! Hark to the lark singing lay upon lay, While the brown squirrel eats nuts on the spray And in the apple-leaves chatters the jay! Play, play, even as they! What though the cowslips ye pluck will decay, What though the grass will be presently hay? What though the noise that ye make should dismay Old Mrs. Clutterbuck over the way? Play, play, for your locks will grow gray; Even the marbles ye sport with are clay. Play, ay in the crowded highway: Was it not made for you? Yea, my lad, yea. True that the babes you were bid to convey Home may fall out or be stolen or stray; True that the tip-cat you toss about may Strike an old gentleman, cause him to sway, Stumble, and p’raps be run o’er by a dray: Still why delay? Play, my son, play! Barclay and Perkins, not you, have to pay.