Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/320

292 A clown who, stooping by the pleasant way,

Rough-cobbled his torn shoes and spoke in feignèd wrath.

At first we thought him brain-touched and askew,

But, as we listened to his shrilling talk,

We found him prating of some things he knew,

Tho' others he but guessed;—we halted in our walk.

His was the wisdom shrewd of roadside men,

Gathered in wanderings through the country wide;

He had a cynic wit, and to his ken

The world wagged wickedly—saved by its humorous side.

Racy his speech and, tho' it bit, good-hearted;

There was an honest freshness in the tramp;

We felt his debtor, therefore when we parted

Some pennies wealthier the philosophic scamp!

Laughing we followed on to sweet Anne's cot:

—Perhaps like us her lover left the town;

Like us he crossed the pretty pasture lot,

And met,—and made immortal,—one more Shakespeare clown.

STRATFORD BELLS

Sabbath eve, betwixt green Avon's banks,

In a dream-world we hour by hour did float;

The ruffling swans moved by in stately ranks;

With soft, sad eyes the cattle watched our boat.

We, passionate pilgrims from a far-off land,

Beyond the vexed Bermoothes: O, how dear