Comes the prudent matron close behind him,
On her way to market, shop, or call,
Quite surprised, and full of grief to find him
Playing truant by the garden wall.
Ah, his pace from thence is duly quickened,
To the crowded school-room he must come,
Be he e'er so weary, or so sickened,
Of its tedious tasks and ceaseless hum.
Soon each actor to the part decreed him,
In the drama of the passing day,
Unresisting hastens, and the freedom
That he sighs for, trafficks for his pay.
This, because our life was made for labor,
And its purpose we may not gainsay.
TEN.
The street is now almost deserted,
Save here and there a straggling form;
He looking, too, quite disconcerted,
And most uncomfortably warm.
The shadows of the trees have shifted,
And taken a most dwarfish length;
And one indeed must needs be gifted
Who cheats the sun of half his strength.
Ah, ten o'clock in midst of summer,
Was never meant for promenade;
And for the ignorant presumer
This sage remark of mine was made.
ELEVEN.
Not much has the sun his manners amended,
But ardent as ever smiles down on us still;
And we can be only surprised and offended,
While he scorches or melts us with hearty good-will.
'Tis the way of some people, to make their advances,
Whether welcome or hateful, forever the same;
So 'tis useless to take any heed of his glances—
In good time he'll leave us, unasked, as he came.
