POETRY.
FELICITY.
A squaLin, hideous town, where streams run black
With vomit of a hundred roaring mills,—
Hither occasion calls me ; and ev'n here, All in the sable reek that wantonly Defames the sunlight and deflowers the morn, One may at least surmise the sky still blue. Ev'n here, the myriad slaves of the machine Leem life a boon ; and here, in days far sped, I overheard a kind-eyed girl relate To her companions, how a favouring chance By some few shillings weekly had increased The earnings of her household, and she said : " So now we are happy, having all we wished,"— Felicity indeed ! though more it lay In wanting little than in winning all.
Felicity indeed ! Across the years To me her tones come back, rebuking ; me, Spreader of toils to snare the wandering Joy No guile may capture and no force surprise— Only by them that never wooed her, won.
O curet with wide desires and spacious dreams, Too cunningly do ye accumulate Appliances and means of happiness, E'er to be happy ! Lavish hosts, ye make Elaborate preparation to receive A shy and simple guest, who, warned of all The ceremony and circumstance wherewith Ye mean to entertain her, will not come.
WILLIAM WATSON.
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