POETRY.
THE PEAR-TREE.
AN APOLOGUE.
["Why have the Radicals lost heart ?"—Spectator, July 20th, 1889.—" We always call ourselves Radicals."—Spectator, passim, before 1885.1 "So, they lose heart, the Radicals,' you say,
Rejoicing, you a Radical selbstyled, Within this decade, if my memory serve.
What is it ? Age, that cools the zeal of youth And breaks its hopes? or growing wealth, that brings Content with things that are and fear of change?"
So Charles to Philip, pacing to and fro In Philip's garden-walks ; fast friends the two, Once comrades who had fought on party fields, Shoulder to shoulder; comrades now no more, Since that ill day that brake our host in twain.
And Philip paused to answer. Near him stood A pear-tree, laden with such bounteous store Of fruitage, gathering now its autumn gold, That scarce the props some careful hand had set Could help it bear its burden. "See," he cried, "This tree, how wealthy ! Yet when first I came, Though April left a pyramid of bloom, Still August found a barren waste of leaves.
Prune it,' a neighbour cried. I plied the knife, But plied in vain. Cut at the root,' he said ; Go always to the root? I cut, in fear Lest severed roots should mar the source of life ; But lo ! this plenty. James, my man, a boor Caught from the plough—the wealth at which you guess Allows no costlier help—would cut again.
Sure it was this that cured her." True,' I said,
But cure contents me; cut again, we " X.
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