Because five hundred years ago a Knight
Drove geese and beeves out from a Franklin’s yard
Because three hundred years ago a squire—­
Against her will, and for her fair estate—­
Married a very ugly red-haired maid,
The blest inheritor of all their pelf,
While in the full enjoyment of the same,
Sighs on his own confession every day. 
He cracks no egg without a moral sigh,
Nor eats of beef, but thinking on that wrong;
Then, yet the more to be revenged on them,
And shame their ancient pride, if they should know,
Works hard as any horse for his degree,
And takes to writing verses.” 
                                  “Ay,” he said,
Half laughing at himself.  “Yet you and I,
But for those tresses which enrich us yet
With somewhat of the hue that partial fame
Calls auburn when it shines on heads of heirs,
But when it flames round brows of younger sons,
Just red—­mere red; why, but for this, I say,
And but for selfish getting of the land,
And beggarly entailing it, we two,
To-day well fed, well grown, well dressed, well read,
We might have been two horny-handed boors—­
Lean, clumsy, ignorant, and ragged boors—­
Planning for moonlight nights a poaching scheme,
Or soiling our dull souls and consciences
With plans for pilfering a cottage roost.

“What, chorus! are you dumb? you should have cried,
‘So good comes out of evil;’” and with that,
As if all pauses it was natural
To seize for songs, his voice broke out again: 

    Coo, dove, to thy married mate—­
      She has two warm eggs in her nest: 
    Tell her the hours are few to wait
      Ere life shall dawn on their rest;
  And thy young shall peck at the shells, elate
    With a dream of her brooding breast.

  Coo, dove, for she counts the hours,
    Her fair wings ache for flight: 
  By day the apple has grown in the flowers,
    And the moon has grown by night,
  And the white drift settled from hawthorn bowers,
    Yet they will not seek the light.

  Coo, dove; but what of the sky? 
    And what if the storm-wind swell,
  And the reeling branch come down from on high
    To the grass where daisies dwell,
  And the brood beloved should with them lie
    Or ever they break the shell?

  Coo, dove; and yet black clouds lower,
    Like fate, on the far-off sea: 
  Thunder and wind they bear to thy bower,
    As on wings of destiny. 
  Ah, what if they break in an evil hour,
    As they broke over mine and me?

What next?—­we started like to girls, for lo! 
The creaking voice, more harsh than rusty crane,
Of one who stooped behind us, cried aloud
“Good lack! how sweet the gentleman does sing—­
So loud and sweet, ’tis like to split his throat. 
Why, Mike’s a child to him, a two years child—­
Chrisom child.” 
                    “Who’s