Classic Poem

Across the lawn, adown the walk,
We carried our familiar talk,
By paths yew-shaded;
The rain was past, but dewy yet
It left your hand, this violet
Which here lies faded.

We scanned the sleeping lily-beds,
The daffodils' unrestful heads,
The primrose border;
Below the din of nesting rooks,
You reckoned up your favourite books
In gracious order

We walked the fields with Lily Dale ,
We sighed that Hetty spurned her pail
In wayward fancy,
We traced The Moonstone's deadly clue,
And climbed the tempting wall with you,
Dear candid Nancy

Of graver prose you loved the best,
You'd bind across Macaulay's breast
The bluest ribbon;
Thought Carlyle execrably rude,
Liked Emerson, were charmed by Froude,
And hated Gibbon

Was it that sacrilegious name? —
That just in view the Abbey came
Between the birches? —
Well, anyhow, 'twas writ by Fate
That you and I should join debate
On creeds and churches.

I needs must strut with sceptic airs,
Display my gimcrack London wares, —
" Last lights were truest;
How could the Gospel stand the shocks
Of Hume's most time-worn paradox,
Of Renan's newest? "

I see your look as yesterday:
Your father's guest must end his say, —
Nor kindle passion;
You bit your lip, and shook your head,
Smiled at yourself as " country-bred, —
Quite out of fashion. "

And I? — well, vanity was blind
To what emotions thronged your mind
That fateful morning;
Some disappointment, underset
With pity, just a faint regret,
But most of scorning

I sought to trench on tenderer ground,
To hint at sentiments profound,
But no, I could not:
That springtide walk had snapped the chain,
I might not weld its links again,
And you, — you would not

And twenty-one is wrapped in pride,
And so it fell I never tried
To crave re-hearing;
Was there, had you but cared to know,
Some kind of manlier self below
My poor veneering?

Ah me! the fleetfoot years have sped,
And never more your steps can tread
That old-time garden:
Some day, perchance, 'mid other flowers,
I, mindful of those squandered hours,
Shall win your pardon.