Jump to content

Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 131.djvu/584

From Wikisource
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
578
THE SILENT POOL, ETC.


THE SILENT POOL.


Beneath
the surface of the crystal water
Metallic shines a floor of frosted green;
Uneven, like a depth of emerald lichen,
Thro' ranks of dark weeds gleams its fairy sheen.

Horsetails of varied growth and plumage sombre,
Like ancient warriors in dark armor dight;
Like fair young maidens' arms the prism-hued grass-leaves,
Clinging in fond embrace before the fight.

Round and about this silent pool the ash-trees
Bend down in thirsty eagerness to drink;
Amid their gray-green leaves show, keenly vivid,
Long feathering laurel-sprays that clothe the brink.

High up in air, some thirty feet or over,
A wild white rose above the footpath clings;
Fearless she clasps a tough, unyielding ash-trunk,
And o'er the pool gay wreaths of blossom flings.

Idly I drop a pebble in the water,
Each sombre horsetail nods a plumed head;
Like pearl or opal gem, the stone sinks slowly,
Transmuted ere it reach its emerald bed.

Mystic the emerald hue beneath the water,
Weirdlike this tint by which the scene is haunted;
Vainly I ask my senses if they wake,
Or is the deep and silent pool enchanted?

Now as the widening ripple circles shoreward,
The plumed dusky warriors file away;
The slender grass-blades wave bright arms imploring.
Streaking with tender green the grim array.

Leafless, a gaunt-armed giant oak, storm-scathed,
In gnarled bareness overhangs the pool;
Fantastic show its knotted limbs contorted,
Grotesque and gray among the leafage cool.

Caught here and there amid the feathered foliage
Are glimpses of the far hills' softened blue,
While overhead the clouds, snow-white and fleecy,
Float slowly on a yet intenser hue.

From Norman times 'tis said, maybe from Saxon,
This calm tree-circled lake secluded lay,
Pure as an infant's breast, its crystal mirror
Baring its inmost depths to gaze of day.

Some specks there are, some clay-flakes on its surface,
To open view revealed, like childish sin;
No roots have they, nor downward growth, to canker
The purity that dwells the pool within.

Mystic the em'rald hue beneath the water,
Fairy the tint by which the scene is haunted;
Vainly I ask my senses if they wake,
Or is the clear and silent pool enchanted?

The swallow flits two-bodied o'er the water,
Its four wings like a windmill's sails outspread;
Through the dark horsetails shoot the silver grayling,
To seize the May-fly skimming overhead.

Flying from lawless love — so runs the story —
A maiden plunged beneath this silent wave;
There, where a holly sits the bank so closely,
She sprang and sank — beyond all power to save.

Six hundred years and more since that dark legend,
Legend that stained a king with lasting shame —
And still the deep and silent pool lies crystal,
Crystal and clear as that poor maiden's fame.

Yet mystic is the hue beneath the water;
Unreal the tint by which the scene is haunted; —
Again I ask my senses if they wake,
Or if the silent pool's indeed enchanted?

Macmillan's Magazine.K. S. M..




A MODEL MAIDEN.

'Tis not alone that she is fair,
And hath a wealth of golden hair;
'Tis not that she can play and sing,
To charm a critic or a king;
'Tis not that she is gentle, kind,
And wears no chignon huge behind,
Nor high-heeled boot, nor corset laced
To show her slenderness of waist;
'Tis not that she can talk with ease
On well-nigh any theme you please;
'Tis not that she can row, and ride,
And do a dozen things beside: —
The reasons why I love Miss Brown
Are that she never wears a frown,
Ne'er sulks, or pouts, or mopes, or frets,
Or fusses about "styles" or "sets;"
Ne'er nurses lapdogs by the fire,
Nor bids her friends their charms admire;
Ne'er bets upon the Derby day,
And when she's lost omits to pay;
By bonnets does not bound her talk,
And is not indisposed to walk;
Ne'er bullies her small brothers, nor
Esteems their childish games a bore:
With pigments ne'er her cheek defiles,
Nor practises coquettish wiles;
Needs not a maid to pack her things,
Nor plagues papa for diamond rings:
On biscuits is content to lunch;
Loves Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, and Punch.
Never descends to vulgar slang,
And ne'er was known the door to bang!

Punch.