POETRY.
fife, BELDAM.
BELDAM, what dost thou here
Beckoning so slily, Lids lifting, and cruel lips Writhen and wily ?
The fiddles are lisping and sighing A slow, lovesick air—
Like gnats are the notes circling In late sunset glare ; And like swans the dancers, On a still pool gliding, By the sweet, sweet fiddles fluttered, And a whispered chiding.
Beldam, chide now no more, To whom dost beckon ?
Hushed are the sighing fiddles, The quick steps slacken, And every shape heaves wildly, Shakes every mirror. . . . Beldam, is it thy thin lips Breathing such terror Sad, sad now the fiddles, • Harsh, sweet notes renewing, Of all sad sounds the sorest ; Their slow steps pursuing.
Who now all heavily Pass out and mourn With thoughts like circling gnats One cold, silent, Ions.
JOHN FREEMAN.
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