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."