POETRY.

BALLAD OF THE YOUNGER SON.

MY brother is in goodly case, Far goodlier than I:

He bath a mansion to his name— My roof-tree is the sky.

To him, a hundred willing knaves

That serve his belly-need- To me, a page for my forage,— A, lad of humble breed.

Within my brother's stalls there stand Of horses full five-score :

A single steed is all my raeed,

Alike for peace and war.

To quench my brother's thirst (good lack !)

Three nations send their wine— I may not drain of France or SPain,

Old Adam's drink is mine. A-many miles of pregnant tilth He bolds beneath his hand: To me, I wis, not even is One little ell of land.

That he may go dry-shod, great lords

Walk meekly in the mire :- I am well sped to have the dread Of but one poor esquire.

Yet, in good sooth, I have no ruth For mine own poverty :

I envy not a whit or jot All that he betters me.

He lies as soft as any King— I couch as chance decrees ; So that I sleep I do not grudge A tittle of his ease.

My brother bath a thousand cares

That rack him day by day ; And he is spent with manage- ment

Of all his fine array.

But I am free, as bird is free, To do my fondest will : I would not 'bate my fair estate To have my brother's ill.

He longs, perchance, to ride abroad—

A hundred footmen straight Make ready gear, and do appear Before him in the gate : For seven-and-twenty weary months Bath never been alone !— God ! that a man or woman can Be found to take a throne !

For me, the friendly silent stars Yield all that I require ; Their twinkling conversation joins Exact with my desire. No other froward tongue dath wag,

Unchecked within my tent ; The moon doth teach a wiser speech

And saner argument.

My brother bath a clerk his craft,

And college-learning rare : No scholar I—my books do die Nowhither and nowhere.

And yet, meseems, my idle dreams (As through the world I pass-) Dimly reflect eternal truths As in a looking glass.

My brother bath a thousand things—

I hold the earth in fee : And who will dare now to declare My brother betters me ?

My brother bath, but never bath— I have, and shall have still: The Younger Son is Elder Son— The cup is his to fill.

W. BARRADELL-SMITH.