When arrayed in breastplate red Sings the robin, for his bread, On the elmtree that hath shed Every leaf; While, within, the frost benumbs The still sleepy schoolboy’s thumbs, And in consequence his sums Come to grief. But when breakfast-time hath come, And he’s crunching crust and crumb, He’ll no longer look a glum Little dunce; But be brisk as bees that settle On a summer rose’s petal: Wherefore, Polly, put the kettle On at once. EVENING. KATE! if e’er thy light foot lingers On the lawn, when up the fells Steals the Dark, and fairy fingers Close unseen the pimpernels: When, his thighs with sweetness laden, From the meadow comes the bee, And the lover and the maiden Stand beneath the trysting tree:— Lingers on, till stars unnumber’d Tremble in the breeze-swept tarn, And the bat that all day slumber’d Flits about the lonely barn; And the shapes that shrink from garish Noon are peopling cairn and lea; And thy sire is almost bearish If kept waiting for his tea:— And the screech-owl scares the peasant As he skirts some churchyard drear; And the goblins whisper pleasant Tales in Miss Rossetti’s ear; Importuning her in strangest, Sweetest tones to buy their fruits:— O be careful that thou changest, On returning home, thy boots. SHELTER. BY the wide lake’s margin I mark’d her lie— The wide, weird lake where the alders sigh— A young fair thing, with a shy, soft eye; And I deem’d that her thoughts had flown To her home, and her brethren, and sisters dear, As she lay there watching the dark, deep mere, All motionless, all alone. Then I heard a noise, as of men and boys, And a boisterous troop drew nigh. Whither now will retreat those fairy feet? Where hide till the storm pass by? One glance—the wild glance of a hunted thing— She cast behind her; she gave one spring; And there follow’d a splash and a broadening ring On the lake where the alders sigh. She had gone from the ken of ungentle men! Yet scarce did I mourn for that; For I knew she was safe in her own home then, And, the danger past, would appear again, For she was a water-rat. IN THE GLOAMING. IN the Gloaming to be roaming, where the crested waves are foaming, And the shy mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet; When the Gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavour To discover—but whatever were the hour, it would be sweet. “To their feet,” I say, for Leech’s sketch indisputably teaches That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in ugly tails, Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals, An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales.