Our  little  Bourg  hath  little  scope
For  aught  but  gossip  in  the  ear  ;


And  I  must  gird  me  to  appear
A  man  among  the  strong  and  brave,
A  man  with  purpose  high  and  grave,
Still  fronting  duty  without  fear,
And  helming  my  prow  to  the  threat-
ening wave.
'Twas   sweet   to   dream  as   we    have

dreamed
Together  in  years  long  ago.
When     Life    might     be     as    Fancy

deemed.
For    aught    the    happy   child    could

know,
A  bright  illusion,  and  a  show
Create  at  will,  and  shaped  to  meet
Each    changeful     whim,    and    quaint

conceit.
And  varying  mood  of  joy  or  woe,
Nor  ever  with  tragic  end  complete.
But  ill  for  him  who  will  not  see

The  dream  to  be  a  dream  indeed.
And  life  a  fateful  mystery.
And  iron  fact  the  only  creed

To  lean  on  in  the  hour  of  need.
The  child  may  dream  ;  the  man  must

act
With  reverence  for  the  world's  great

fact ;
And    look   to    toil    and    sweat    and

bleed,
And  gather  his  energies  all  compact.
Why  might  I  not  ray  battle  fight
Here    by   your    side   with    pen    and

book  ?
Girls  never  understand  aright
That  men  must  leave  the  ingle-nook
And  for  a  larger  wisdom  brook
Experience  of  a  harder  law,
And  learn  humility  and  awe  :
And    books    are    mirrors    where   you

look
But    on    shadows    of    things    which

others  saw.
Loquitur  Thorold


43


How  sweet  the  old  brook  tinkles  still
Through    daisy    mead     and     golden

broom,
Where  once  we  placed  our  water-mill,
And  heard  it  clicking  in  the  gloom.
Hushed,  sleepless,  in  our  little  room  !
Yonder,  we  caught  the  tiny  trout —
Our  first — you  carried  it  about
All  day,  complaining  of  its  doom,
And  trying  each  pool  if  its  life  were

gone  out.
