But where would be the golden tresses, With ribands bravely intertwined And where the roses, that thy praises Have opened like a Summer wind, Wert thou, my love, my Knight, not here, To make these empty beauties dear? The Spring would never deck her train In such a fair and winsome wise Did she not seek by smiles to chain The sun her royal lover’s eyes. _1876._ [Illustration] May Marian. A BALLAD. In our town there dwelt a maiden Whom the folk called Marian; In her narrow gabled casement All day long she sat and span. Till a gentleman came riding Through our town one Summer day, Spied May Marian at the casement, Stole her silly heart away. Then she up and left her spinning, Laid aside her russet gown, In a footboy’s cap and mantle Followed him to London town. There he led her to a mansion Standing by the river side; “In that mansion dwells the lady Who is my betrothed bride; “Gif thou’lt be her serving-maiden, Thou shalt wear a braw red gown, Follow her to mass on Sunday Through the streets of London town; “But if thou’lt not be her maiden, Turn about and get thee home; ’Tis not meet that country wenches Through the city here should roam.” Not a word in answer spake she; Weeping sore she turned away, And alone she gat her homeward, Travelling till the fall of day. To our town she came at gloaming, Softly tirled she at the door; Whispered: “let me in, sweet mother, I will wander never more.” “I will turn me to my spinning, I will don my russet gown; Home is best for country lasses, Men are false in London town.” But the door was shut against her, To her prayer came answer none. All night long alone she wandered, Wandered weeping through our town. But at dawn she was aweary-- In the street she laid her down; And they found her dead at sunrise With her head upon a stone. MORAL. Ladies, listen to my ballad: Maidens are too lightly won; Home is best for country lasses, Men are false in London town. _1876._ [Illustration] [Illustration] Opportunities. Who knows his opportunities? They come Not trumpet-tongued from Heaven, but small and dumb, Not beckoning from the future’s promised land, But in the narrow present close at hand. They walk beside us with unsounding feet, And like those two that trode the Eastern street And with their Saviour bartered thought for thought, Our eyes are holden and we know them not. _1878._ [Illustration] [Illustration] “The Last Token.” A. D. 107. (She speaks.)