IN EXPECTATIONE.
I had left my lodging and gone to occupy Falconer's till his return.
There, on a side-table among other papers, I found the following verses.The manuscript was much scored and interlined, but more than decipherable, for he always wrote plainly.I copied them out fair, and here they are for the reader that loves him.
Twilight is near, and the day grows old;
The spiders of care are weaving their net;All night 'twill be blowing and rainy and cold;I cower at his door from the wind and wet.
He sent me out the world to see, Drest for the road in a garment new;It is clotted with clay, and worn beggarly--The porter will hardly let me through!
I bring in my hand a few dusty ears--
Once I thought them a tribute meet!
I bring in my heart a few unshed tears:
Which is my harvest--the pain or the wheat?
A broken man, at the door of his hall I listen, and hear it go merry within;The sounds are of birthday-festival!
Hark to the trumpet! the violin!
I know the bench where the shadowed folk Sit 'neath the music-loft--there none upbraids!
They will make me room who bear the same yoke, Dear publicans, sinners, and foolish maids!
An ear has been hearing my heart forlorn!
A step comes soft through the dancing-din!
Oh Love eternal! oh woman-born!
Son of my Father to take me in!
One moment, low at our Father's feet Loving I lie in a self-lost trance;Then walk away to the sinners' seat, With them, at midnight, to rise and dance!
THE END
