Читать книгу The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson - Hilda Orchardson Gray - Страница 13
My dearest Duncan, I trust you still are well, And still survive beneath each passing shock Of falls without a rise when “Bears” will sell And “Bulls” are sometimes sold, too, with the stock And lose besides their own dear stock of patience And learn to know the pangs of indigestion Although they grow more cautious o’er their rations And steam their brains with punch to save congestion. But how is our old friend I hope in all his parts he’s still intact And safe on earth to grin where others grumble And scratch his head and know that “it’s a fact.” And then again our good friends Mrs Gentle And Gentle Cockletops the witty farmer Ask for their healths both physical and mental And if the latter had his Ayrshire charmer. But ah! why linger o’er such themes as these Which fall unheeded on thy faithful ear Whose drum is beat in vain vain hope to please Unless struck by her name whose love you bear. Sweet name—though long or short ’tis sweet to thee And jingles gently round or right above you Then hush! and in soft tones say how is she The greatly unexpressed the glorious lovely? That purest unnamed myth of joy and fears, That unblown bud of seven lang lang years. Pray call her Mary, Nell or Isabel The former pair are garnered in my breast And being pretty may answer pretty well To mark your special lovely from the rest. But there! the Muse has heard the name of mine And cannot sing of yours though your wellwisher; For Helen sweetly chimes in every line And looking in my head she finds Miss Fisher. How oft at even by the gliding Tay My thoughts have floated o’er its gentle breasts, To wonder midst those lights which point the way Where beauteous Helen wakes or slumb’ring rests, To fix on one and fondly call it Hers, And whisper to my heart its own dear choice, And hear it murmured in the stilly hours And echoed by the waters’ gurgling voice. Oh! she is sweeter than the morning sigh Which rises fragrant from the waking rose To greet with frankincense the world’s great eye And praise the source from whence its beauty flows So sweet, so pure, so wrought about with grace Spring in her step and summer in her eyes She shows the seasons in her blooming face And moves the Hesperus of earthly skies. How passing pleasant (when the weather’s choice) To stroll sans thought or care down by his side To list the music of his gushing voice Or read the unthumbed page there opened wide. So poets think, I know, which is a pity For after all I do prefer the city.
ОглавлениеMr Drummond does not refer to the above letter, but what he says seems appropriate here. He writes from Perth to W. Q. O. in December 1855, thanking him for “your very clever poetical epistle, which is really very witty and took amazingly—I read it that very night to [illegible] Smith and [illegible] and they enjoyed it vastly. I also read a part to the Widow McGregor and Mr [illegible] and endeavoured to make it thought the sweet bits were meant for the young lady there, Miss Fisher; how far I succeeded I know not, perhaps you may learn that sooner than me.
Pray what is the size of the little gem you are to give me? When you are in a good humour bestow an hour upon it and in the meantime let me know what the subject is.”
I remember when I first went to Edinburgh three ancient maidens living together, sisters, much older than my Father, were pointed out to me as having been early “flames”; tradition said they had never married for love of him. Perhaps the following is addressed to them:
