The Globe Republican

MARGIE.

'That lovely brook, I see it
Still flashing in the sun:
And she and I are children
Once more in Islington;
And Margie on the bank there,
I see as she used to look.
Those summer days when she played with
me,
On the borders of the brook.
What wonderful ships and shallops
I made for Margie then.
With leaves and grass for cargoes
And sticks and straws for men:
And what brave names we gave them:
"Orlando," "George-a-Green,"
"Sir Galahad," "King Pellinore,"
"The Cid" and "Sir Cauline"
We cared not much for trance
Yet our captains and our mates
Brought often the honeys of Hybla
And Tunis figs and dates;
But when love called, or honor,
We sent our vessels out
In aid of all who needed them
With many a cheer and shout!
We wrote to Robinson Crusoe
That we hoped now Friday was gone.
He would come straight over and see us,
With all his goat skins on:
And bring the poll parrot with him
So when they stepped on shore.
We should know them
both and take
them home
Never to wander more.
As the seasons changed, so we did:
In spring we dreamed of fame:
And in summer of autumn's riches:
And when October came.
We stripped the yellow gold trees
And sent our ill-got gain
In caravels to Andaluce,
Across the Spanish Main
That lovely brook—I know not
Just where it comes from now
But in those days it wandered—
As Margie could avow—
Right out from far Cipango,
And merrily ran on
Till it came to the fairy fields this side
The valley of Avalon.
It heard in Sherwood forest
Brave Robin's bugle calls:
And carried on the music
To dash it on the walls
Of the city of Masoa:
And could be seen afar.
In clearest air from Samarcand
And near to Candahar.
Sometimes I see the windings
Of that brook, as in a dream.
While it flows away to the sunset:
And here and there the stream
Is touched with a light so tender
That it seems to my loving eyes
The course of a beautiful human life
Ending in Paradise
And plans and schemes are the vessels
And hope is the wind that blows,
And all good aims are the harbors.
And time is the tide that flows;
And then again all changes.
And I see ourselves once more—
Dear Margie and a little boy
Playing along the shore.
-Henry Ames Blood, in Youth's Companion