JUNE:-so I used to call it, as I think,-
What time the merry Earth keeps carnival,
Green-masked and garlanded, and jewel-pranked
With lily-pearl, carnation-carbuncle,
The sapphire that the Iris steals from Heaven,
Laburnum's topaz, lilac's amethyst,
Rose-ruby, and all gems her casket holds.
Methinks she wears them with a difference now,
A glory something fainter. Is the change
In these or me, the seer or the seen?
Or does that fond false artist Memory
Trick them with livelier hues than e'er they wore? I know not, but all colour seems a-cold.
I recollect the time when such a Sun,
As that which blazes high in Heaven to-day,
Would send me sweltering to my summer-seat
Beneath the broad fan-branches of the limes
That fringe my lawn ;-it doesn't warm me now!
I seem to miss the old-accustomed wraps
Of flesh and skin;-I shall get used to it
In time, I doubt not; but it's strange, as yet,
To feel the light airs blow me through and through
Uncharged with sense of coolness or of warmth,
Nor more disturb me now than I disturb
One leaflet of the rose-bush that, untrimmed,
In wanton wild luxuriance, all but bars
The garden-porch with block of bud and flower.
Curious-this gliding noiseless, like a thief,
In to one's own ;-no playful tap at pane
Startling the twilight gossip round the hearth,—
No tingle of the bell,—no rat-tat-tat
Of the black lion's nose-ring on the door,
No eager bark of recognising Tray,
Poor beast! he couldn't jump upon me now
If he were here!-I miss him though :-how long,
How many evenings did he watch to hear
At the old hour the old footstep? Is he dead
Like me? I've read, what time I took delight
In books, of dogs that pined and died of grief
For loss of those they loved. (Philosophers
Have held it doubtful whether such disease
Made ever Ghost of Man.) There's Puss, at least,
That ever, with her velvet back on-arch,
Would rub a purring welcome round my legs,
Soon as I sate:-she's got small notion now
That here I am i' the midst. They used to set
My arm-chair ready;-'tisn't in its place?
Ah! there it lurks i' the corner, thrust aside,
With one leg lacking,—just a hospital
For all the children's maimed and mangled pets,
Noah's leaky ark, the Patriarch and his wife,
Shem, Ham, and Japhet, all the sequent beasts
Emptied pell-mell, the lion with the lamb,
And jostled amid wreck of broken drums,
And trunks of long-decapitated dolls!
Somehow I lose of late my count of time :-
How many of the spaces men call days
Have dawned and darkened, registered, ticked off,
In that old unconsulted almanac
Wherein Time keeps the count of all the Past,
Some day to meet its audit?-Is't a week,
A month-it cannot sure be more—since I,
Since it, I mean (how the old habit clings!)
The case, the shell, the husk, that held me once,
Was carried, with more pomp and circumstance,
More numerous tendance, and more lavish cost
Than e'er was spent upon it in the flesh,
Into the narrow house that, every week,
The parson warned me I must tenant soon?
Pooh! It is there-not I!—The parson preached
Some truth, no doubt;-according to his lights
Most honest ;-but you can't get blood from stones,
Or out of Parsons more than Parsons know.
I wonder-after It was borne away—
How long they looked at that old chair, and left
Its seat untenanted,-how long they talked
With bated breath of him who filled it once,
As though the cheerier tone of natural speech
Might shock the delicate ear of Death, and mar
The new scarce-tasted quiet of the grave?-
That topic's talked out now, if I can judge;
That fear is lost. I see black broadcloth still,
And ells voluminous of bombasine
At hearth and board; but small abiding sense
Of what they signify. There's a new song
Spread out-a vulgar darling of the Halls
Misnamed of Music-o'er the ivory keys ;-
There's a new novel on the window-sill ;—
And from its leaves methinks I scent a whiff
Foul, stale, of that abominable weed
Whose filthy use I never brooked indoors.
I count enough familiar things, and yet
How all seems other than it used to seem !
A chilly, vague, uncomfortable sense
Of novelty hangs over all things old,
And some are changed in place :-and some I miss. Where have they put that sketch that used to hang Beside my corner ?-prized for her dear sake
Who pencilled it long since,—a simple thing,
A cottage, tree, and streamlet,-short perhaps
Of academic excellence, but Hers,
Hers, whom I lost ere these were old enough
To know their share in such a loss more great
E'en than mine own :-I'd like to rend and burn
That chromo-lithograph that fills its place!
Ah me! new lords, new ways!-They're young, I know;
It's natural, I suppose :-but in my time
Long since, when I succeeded, did I hold
Lightly as these the favourites of the Dead?
I think I'm glad they cannot know I'm here
Among them-glad I cannot speak to them.
I dare not guess what welcome I should get
Could I declare my presence. I was pleased
At thought of coming; now I'm glad to go.
They're well and happy,-that should be enough
To satisfy a reasonable ghost.
May they long live so! Farewell! I depart!
Some other way, though-not by that front door
Through which I saw them bear It out, feet first,
That morn when half the village blinds were down,
And all the children out to see the show.
Back, by the postern, through the offices
I can slip out,-no footfall to betray
The master's prying presence. I forget!
What babble I of lord and master now?
I shall not scare the idle scullery wench,
That lounges, giggling with the idle groom,
Beside the stable door, the while, unfed,
My old grey pony stands at empty rack
And manger, looking patient for the oats
His due an hour ago. The garden gate!
The kitchen garden, where my arbour bench,
With honeysuckle roofed and clematis,
Looked through espaliered rows of plum and pear,
Glistening with diamond dew of summer morns,
Down to the walnut at the orchard end,
Set by the grandame whom I never knew ;-
My beds, my shrubs, my fruit-trees,-I may look
Once more on these, at least, and find no change.
There's the old pond, and on its turfy slope
The old dial, and the sleepy old gold-fish
Among the water-lilies. Hah! what's that?-
That bald red line of brick that cuts the sky?
Is that dismantled block my garden wall?
I think, when I was heir, I would have cleft
My right hand from its socket, ere I lopped
One twig that owed its planting to my sire!
I know Dick never loved those ivy stems
It cost me years to train from base to crown,
Till all the country couldn't show their match.
He used to sneer, and call them alms-houses
For slugs and snails. It might be; but I know
I never lacked a peach at autumn-tide :
There always was enough for slug, and snail,
Me, Richard, and the rest. He might have spared
His father's hobby for a year or two.
Or-there's a gardener's face that's new to me-
'Twas he, no doubt, not Richard, that despoiled
My walls of that luxuriant coronal
I wreathed upon their brows. I trimmed their locks
I' the garden-side,—but 'twas a sight to see
How outwardly they bourgeoned, how they flung
Their dark, dense, sun-defying canopy
Of shoot, and leaf, and cluster, o'er the path
That wound beneath it up the skirting lane!
'Tis best I go no further, I would keep
Some pleasant memories yet, and dare not risk
To prove them cheats. I will depart, and come
No more. I had thought often to return,
To see old faces, hear old voices. No!
That dream is dreamed! What feeble whine was that?
What moan, as of a dumb thing, sore in pain,
Comes from the corner where the stables dwarf
To byre and sty? There was no creature there,
In my time, but was happy. Ah! my God!
Who was it that did this? My Tray, my dog,
My friend, who loved me as a child might love
Its father; whom I loved-Heaven pardon me!
Almost as might a father love his child,
Turned out, uncared-for, banished, kenneled, chained!
And I-I cannot loose him! Savages,
That slew the hound upon his owner's grave,
And deemed that to the happier hunting-grounds
They sent him partner of his master's chase,.
Had kinder hearts! And I must slink away,
Ashamed, in silence, like a guilty thing,
And but be thankful that he cannot know
My presence, or with piteous mute appeal
Of eye upbraid me that I leave him thus!
Ah me! I looked to see some change, for change,
I know, is death's successor,-some disuse
Most like of trivial ordinance,-some touch
Perchance of new improvement,-but not this!
Poor Tray! thy heart is broken!—so is mine!
"Les Revenants!"- -so the Frenchman calls us ghosts:"The Comers-back,"- -no more; no touch, no hint
Of reverence or affection,-just a plain
Prosaic recognition of a fact:
The Comers-back.-Would God I had not come !
JUNE:-so I used to call it, as I think,-
What time the merry Earth keeps carnival,
Green-masked and garlanded, and jewel-pranked
With lily-pearl, carnation-carbuncle,
The sapphire that the Iris steals from Heaven,
Laburnum's topaz, lilac's amethyst,
Rose-ruby, and all gems her casket holds.
Methinks she wears them with a difference now,
A glory something fainter. Is the change
In these or me, the seer or the seen?
Or does that fond false artist Memory
Trick them with livelier hues than e'er they wore? I know not, but all colour seems a-cold.
I recollect the time when such a Sun,
As that which blazes high in Heaven to-day,
Would send me sweltering to my summer-seat
Beneath the broad fan-branches of the limes
That fringe my lawn ;-it doesn't warm me now!
I seem to miss the old-accustomed wraps
Of flesh and skin;-I shall get used to it
In time, I doubt not; but it's strange, as yet,
To feel the light airs blow me through and through
Uncharged with sense of coolness or of warmth,
Nor more disturb me now than I disturb
One leaflet of the rose-bush that, untrimmed,
In wanton wild luxuriance, all but bars
The garden-porch with block of bud and flower.
Curious-this gliding noiseless, like a thief,
In to one's own ;-no playful tap at pane
Startling the twilight gossip round the hearth,—
No tingle of the bell,-no rat-tat-tat
Of the black lion's nose-ring on the door,—
No eager bark of recognising Tray,—
Poor beast! he couldn't jump upon me now
If he were here!-I miss him though :-how long,
How many evenings did he watch to hear
At the old hour the old footstep? Is he dead
Like me? I've read, what time I took delight
In books, of dogs that pined and died of grief
For loss of those they loved. (Philosophers
Have held it doubtful whether such disease
Made ever Ghost of Man.) There's Puss, at least,
That ever, with her velvet back on-arch,
Would rub a purring welcome round my legs,
Soon as I sate :—she's got small notion now
That here I am i' the midst. They used to set
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