“But some one digs upon my grave? My enemy?—prodding sly?” —“Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate That shuts on all flesh soon or late, She thought you no more worth her hate, And cares not where you lie.”
“Then, who is digging on my grave? Say—since I have not guessed!” —“O it is I, my mistress dear, Your little dog, who still lives near, And much I hope my movements here Have not disturbed your rest?”
“Ah, yes! _You_ dig upon my grave . . . Why flashed it not on me That one true heart was left behind! What feeling do we ever find To equal among human kind A dog’s fidelity!”
“Mistress, I dug upon your grave To bury a bone, in case I should be hungry near this spot When passing on my daily trot. I am sorry, but I quite forgot It was your resting-place.”
SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCES IN FIFTEEN GLIMPSES
THE kettle descants in a cozy drone, And the young wife looks in her husband’s face, And then at her guest’s, and shows in her own Her sense that she fills an envied place; And the visiting lady is all abloom, And says there was never so sweet a room.
And the happy young housewife does not know That the woman beside her was first his choice, Till the fates ordained it could not be so . . . Betraying nothing in look or voice The guest sits smiling and sips her tea, And he throws her a stray glance yearningly.
“AND now to God the Father,” he ends, And his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles: Each listener chokes as he bows and bends, And emotion pervades the crowded aisles. Then the preacher glides to the vestry-door, And shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more.
The door swings softly ajar meanwhile, And a pupil of his in the Bible class, Who adores him as one without gloss or guile, Sees her idol stand with a satisfied smile And re-enact at the vestry-glass Each pulpit gesture in deft dumb-show That had moved the congregation so.
“SIXPENCE a week,” says the girl to her lover, “Aunt used to bring me, for she could confide In me alone, she vowed. ’Twas to cover The cost of her headstone when she died. And that was a year ago last June; I’ve not yet fixed it. But I must soon.”
“And where is the money now, my dear?” “O, snug in my purse . . . Aunt was _so_ slow In saving it—eighty weeks, or near.” . . . “Let’s spend it,” he hints. “For she won’t know. There’s a dance to-night at the Load of Hay.” She passively nods. And they go that way.