Chapter XVII · Prologue to a little Comedy written in the Death-Chamber, and called

ONCE IN A HUNDRED YEARS.

I come to tell you how the author sat

And looked upon the picture of his love.

He spoke to her—you know he could do that—

And she replied. But this you must believe.

Although no ears received her charming words,

Nor keenest eyes saw her sweet lips pronounce—

It was her heart which spoke to his and said

196What none but they may know. ’Twas thus she brought him

Of love and faith and joy and merriment.

The last alone he has set down because

No tongue or pen can tell the other three.

But they, God bless them, knew it in their souls,

And so do I—for, would you think it,

I’m that happy man. Is there another

Half so blessed—“Once in a Hundred Years?”

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