一周前，当我在亨德森附近的街上散步时，我碰巧遇到了一个我认识的人。他的名字是亚历山大·贝尔，他的家在邓迪;我不像他了解我那样了解他。他热烈地握了握我的手，讨论了天气，然后提议我们一起去散步。我们沿着学院街往前走，在那里我们遇见了美丽的玛丽·格雷小姐，那个大风骚女郎，去年春天她偷走了我的心，至今仍在。她用我的弓向她致意的微笑，要是更可爱就好了!不然就不那么可爱了——既然她的甜蜜都要挥霍掉。因此，当我在街上遇见她的时候，我忧伤地沉思;当她退去的时候，我的思绪也会游荡。于是，我心不在焉地听贝尔描述他发明的折叠椅。当我们到达斯威肯堡时，“看来要下雨了，”我说，“我们最好掉头。这一切都是徒劳的，因为贝尔对天气很敏感，他知道空中的迹象; He bade me note the strip of blue Above the Imperial, Also another patch of sky, South-west by south, Which meant that we might journey dry To Eden's mouth. He was a man with information On many topics: He talked about the exploration Of Poles and Tropics, The scene in Parliament last night, Sir William's letter; 'And do you like the electric light, Or gas-lamps better?' The strike among the dust-heap pickers He said was over; And had I read about the liquors Just seized at Dover? Or the unhappy printer lad At Rothesay drowned? Or the Italian ironclad That ran aground ? He told me stories (lately come) Of town society, Some slightly tinged with truth, and some With impropriety. He spoke of duelling in France, Then lightly glanced at Mrs. Mackenzie's monster dance, Which he had danced at. So he ran on, till by-and-by A silence came, For which I greatly fear that I Was most to blame. Then neither of us spoke a word For quite a minute When presently a thought occurred With promise in it. 'How did you like the Shakespeare play The students read By this, the Eden like a bay Before us spread. Near Eden many softer plots Of sand there be; Our feet, like Pharaoh's chariots, Drave heavily. And ere an answer I could frame, He said that Irving Of his extraordinary fame Was undeserving, And for his part he thought more highly Of Ellen Terry; Although he knew a girl named Riley At Broughty Ferry, Who might be, if she only chose, As great a star, She had a part in the tableaux At the bazaar. If I had said but little yet, I now said less, And smoked a home-made cigarette In mute distress. The smoke into his face was blown By the wind's action, And this afforded me, I own, Some satisfaction; But still his tongue received no check Till, coming home, We stood beside the ancient wreck And watched the foam Wash in among the timbers, now Sunk deep in sand, Though I can well remember how I used to stand On windy days and hold my hat, And idly turn To read 'Lovise, Frederikstad' Upon her stern. Her stern long since was buried quite, And soon no trace The absorbing sand will leave in sight To mark her place. This reverie was not permitted To last too long. Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted To fields of song. And now he spoke of Marmion And Lewis Morris; The former he at school had done, Along with Horace. His maiden aunts, no longer young, But learned ladies, Had lately sent him Songs Unsung, Epic of Hades, Gycia, and Gwen. He thought them fine; Not like that Browning, Of whom he would not read a line, He told me, frowning. Talking of Horace -- very clever Beyond a doubt, But what the Satires meant, he never Yet could make out. I said I relished Satire Nine Of the First Book; But he had skipped to the divine Eliza Cook. He took occasion to declare, In tones devoted, How much he loved her old Arm-chair, Which now he quoted. And other poets he reviewed, Some two or three, Till, having touched on Thomas Hood, He turned to me. 'Have you been stringing any rhymes Of late?' he said. I could not lie, but several times I shook my head. The last straw to the earth will bow The overloaded camel, And surely I resembled now That ill-used mammal. See how a thankless world regards The gifted choir Of minstrels, singer