Classic Poem

Then, she puff'd up the hill, to the home of her love;
And there a strange scene was display'd;
For John the bewitch'd, though expecting his dove,
Sate at dinner, with Sarah, his maid,
In the neat pannell'd parlour, where Jem us'd to dine,
When he call'd on his way from the shows:
He was sipping Jem's cordial, the dame's brandied wine,
When Sarah in terror arose,
And in came meek Susan! who said not a word,
But threw her soil'd shawl o'er a chair;
Then, courteously smil'd on her fear-feigning lord,
And honour'd her maid with a stare.
A hot roasted fowl on the table was plac'd;
So, feeling of hunger the stings,
She took Sarah's chair, and to show her good taste,
Help'd herself to the breast and both wings.
But in token of peace, both the sidebones for John,
From under the straddle she carv'd;
And gave him both drumsticks, when both thighs were gone,
To feed the fat hen he had starv'd;
For Susan, transform'd by a spirit of power,
Seem'd meek as a storm-cloud at rest;
And John the Bewitch'd, Unbewitch'd from that hour,
Was of maltsters and mortals the best!
He spoke not, but placidly welcom'd the change
Which Time, " that brings roses, " had brought;
Nor tardy was she to give evidence strange
That in her was a miracle wrought.
Lo, when she had din'd, to the garden she went,
Where she cull'd the first lilac of Spring,
The prize-polyanthus, with violets blent,
And primroses — tied in a string;
And plac'd them — and laugh'd — on the cloth of pale blue,
In a vase, sprigg'd with gold on dead white;
For all that is lovely and tasteful, she knew,
Fill'd his weak childish heart with delight.
Sweet Flowers, how they smil'd through the thunder's bright tears,
On the maltster, self-scourg'd, though belied,
Who shook, in sly glee, the brown wig of his years,
With the gipsy-chang'd dame at his side:
" Young wives and old husbands may sometimes agree, "
Said John, shaking hands with his mate;
" A lobsided ladder's a sort of a stee, "
Thought Susan, instructed, though late;
While the Father of Love, from the brightening west,
Where Loxley and Rivilin rise,
Cast down on their waters, awake or at rest,
And on John's placid smile, and on Susan's fond breast,
The soul-soothing blue of his eyes;
And the redbreast peep'd in from the moss'd window-sill,
Where he sang in the sunshiny rain,
Till the thunder-rent cloud, o'er the rough eastern hill,
Retiring in wrath, that spake thunder-toned still,
Left Stanage, serene as his Maker's high will,
In sunshine and glory again;
Proclaiming afar, in the silence of light,
His love of the lovely, the might of his might;
Proclaiming afar, that the Beautiful lives
With the good and the wise, in His Temple of Mind,
Still making life's strength of the peace that he gives
To the hearts of the gentle, the thoughtful, the kind.