The Story
of Saville
Think not twice in a life to find such a rose-ruby to keep!
Ah! they were saying carelessly, back in his wonted place,
“Wonder where he has slipped to? Poor devil, he’s out of the race—
Nothing remains, as the French say, but drawing the sheet o’er the face,”—
And ever he mused of his village home and the graves on the churchyard hill,
Where the only hearts that had beat for him were crumbling, cruelly still,
And his useless eyes brimmed over with tears, and slowly his blood grew chill.
Then sudden he rose and flung off his mood, and called with a bitter laugh
For raiment against the javelin cold, for a guide and his brand new staff,
And donning the garments doubtfully, with timid questioning touch,
Now sharply chiding his helper, now thanking him over much,
And groping his way before him in spite of the lad’s firm clutch,
He reached the street and onward dragged, commanding to be led where
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