A clown who, stooping by the pleasant way,
Rough-cobbled his torn shoes and spoke in feignèd wrath.
At first we thought him brain-touched and askew,
But, as we listened to his shrilling talk,
We found him prating of some things he knew,
Tho' others he but guessed;—we halted in our walk.
His was the wisdom shrewd of roadside men,
Gathered in wanderings through the country wide;
He had a cynic wit, and to his ken
The world wagged wickedly—saved by its humorous side.
Racy his speech and, tho' it bit, good-hearted;
There was an honest freshness in the tramp;
We felt his debtor, therefore when we parted
Some pennies wealthier the philosophic scamp!
Laughing we followed on to sweet Anne's cot:
—Perhaps like us her lover left the town;
Like us he crossed the pretty pasture lot,
And met,—and made immortal,—one more Shakespeare clown.
STRATFORD BELLS
One Sabbath eve, betwixt green Avon's banks,
In a dream-world we hour by hour did float;
The ruffling swans moved by in stately ranks;
With soft, sad eyes the cattle watched our boat.
We, passionate pilgrims from a far-off land,
Beyond the vexed Bermoothes: O, how dear
