And ruddy cherries eaten, and the dogs
Mumbling the bones, this elder brother of mine—­
This man, that never felt an ache or pain
In his broad, well-knit frame, and never knew
The trouble of an unforgiven grudge,
The sting of a regretted meanness, nor
The desperate struggle of the unendowed
For place and for possession—­he began
To sing a rhyme that he himself had wrought;
Sending it out with cogitative pause,
As if the scene where he had shaped it first
Had rolled it back on him, and meeting it
Thus unaware, he was of doubtful mind
Whether his dignity it well beseemed
To sing of pretty maiden: 

Goldilocks sat on the grass,
  Tying up of posies rare;
Hardly could a sunbeam pass
  Through the cloud that was her hair. 
Purple orchis lasteth long,
  Primrose flowers are pale and clear;
O the maiden sang a song
  It would do you good to hear!

Sad before her leaned the boy,
  “Goldilocks that I love well,
Happy creature, fair and coy,
  Think o’ me, sweet Amabel.” 
Goldilocks she shook apart,
  Looked with doubtful, doubtful eyes;
Like a blossom in her heart,
  Opened out her first surprise.

As a gloriole sign o’ grace,
  Goldilocks, ah fall and flow,
On the blooming, childlike face,
  Dimple, dimple, come and go. 
Give her time; on grass and sky
  Let her gaze if she be fain: 
As they looked ere he drew nigh,
  They will never look again.

Ah! the playtime she has known,
  While her goldilocks grew long,
Is it like a nestling flown,
  Childhood over like a song? 
Yes, the boy may clear his brow,
  Though she thinks to say him nay,
When she sighs, “I cannot now—­
  Come again some other day.”

“Hold! there,” he cried, half angry with himself;
“That ending goes amiss:”  then turned again
To the old argument that we had held—­
“Now look you!” said my brother, “You may talk
Till, weary of the talk, I answer ’Ay,
There’s reason in your words;’ and you may talk
Till I go on to say, ‘This should be so;’
And you may talk till I shall further own
‘It is so; yes, I am a lucky dog!’
Yet not the less shall I next morning wake. 
And with a natural and fervent sigh,
Such as you never heaved, I shall exclaim
‘What an unlucky dog I am!’” And here
He broke into a laugh.  “But as for you—­
You! on all hands you have the best of me;
Men have not robbed you of your birthright—­work,
Nor ravaged in old days a peaceful field,
Nor wedded heiresses against their will,
Nor sinned, nor slaved, nor stooped, nor overreached,
That you might drone a useless life away
’Mid half a score of bleak and barren farms
And half a dozen bogs.” 
                          “O rare!” I cried;
“His wrongs go nigh to make him eloquent: 
Now we behold how far bad actions reach!