THERE was a spell of leisure, No record vouches when; With honours, praises, pleasure To womankind from men. But no such lures bewitched me, No hand was stretched to raise, No gracious gifts enriched me, No voices sang my praise. Yet an iris at that season Amid the accustomed slight From denseness, dull unreason, Ringed me with living light. “SACRED TO THE MEMORY” (MARY H.) THAT “Sacred to the Memory” Is clearly carven there I own, And all may think that on the stone The words have been inscribed by me In bare conventionality. They know not and will never know That my full script is not confined To that stone space, but stands deep lined Upon the landscape high and low Wherein she made such worthy show. TO A WELL-NAMED DWELLING GLAD old house of lichened stonework, What I owed you in my lone work, Noon and night! Whensoever faint or ailing, Letting go my grasp and failing, You lent light. How by that fair title came you? Did some forward eye so name you Knowing that one, Sauntering down his century blindly, Would remark your sound, so kindly, And be won? Smile in sunlight, sleep in moonlight, Bask in April, May, and June-light, Zephyr-fanned; Let your chambers show no sorrow, Blanching day, or stuporing morrow, While they stand. THE WHIPPER-IN MY father was the whipper-in,— Is still—if I’m not misled? And now I see, where the hedge is thin, A little spot of red; Surely it is my father Going to the kennel-shed! “I cursed and fought my father—aye, And sailed to a foreign land; And feeling sorry, I’m back, to stay, Please God, as his helping hand. Surely it is my father Near where the kennels stand?” “—True. Whipper-in he used to be For twenty years or more; And you did go away to sea As youths have done before. Yes, oddly enough that red there Is the very coat he wore. “But he—he’s dead; was thrown somehow, And gave his back a crick, And though that is his coat, ’tis now The scarecrow of a rick; You’ll see when you get nearer— ’Tis spread out on a stick. “You see, when all had settled down Your mother’s things were sold, And she went back to her own town, And the coat, ate out with mould, Is now used by the farmer For scaring, as ’tis old.” A MILITARY APPOINTMENT (SCHERZANDO) “SO back you have come from the town, Nan, dear! And have you seen him there, or near— That soldier of mine— Who long since promised to meet me here?” “—O yes, Nell: from the town I come, And have seen your lover on sick-leave home— That soldier of yours— Who swore to meet you, or Strike-him-dumb;