VII. FATHERS.

Move through the bowering hops, O lovers,—

Wander down to the golden West,—

But two stand mute in the shade that covers

Your love and youth from their souls opprest.

A little shame on their spirits stealing,—

A little pride that is loth to sue,—

A little struggle with soften'd feeling,—

And a world of fatherly care for you.

One says: “To this same running water,

May be, Neighbor, your claim is best.”

And one — “Your son has kissed my daughter:

Let the matters between us — rest.”