If, when he reached his journey's end, And warmed himself in court or college, He had not gained an honest friend, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;— If he departed as he came, With no new light on love or liquor,— Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses; It slipped from politics to puns; It passed from Mahomet to Moses; Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine, Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line, He 'stablished Truth, or startled Error, The Baptist found him far too deep, The Deist sighed with saving sorrow, And the lean Levite went to sleep And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or showed That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and head that penned and planned them, For all who understood, admired, And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way, Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost; Lines to a ringlet or a turban; And trifles to the Morning Post, And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair, Although he had a knack of joking; He did not make himself a bear, Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad, He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad, It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarred the shutter, The clammy lips of Fever smiled The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caesar or of Venus; From him I learned the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quae genus. I used to singe his powdered wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack, the change! In vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trifled; The level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled. The church is larger than before, You reach it by a carriage entry: It holds three hundred people more, And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat; you'll hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose voice is clear, Whose phrase is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid? Look down, And construe on the slab before you: "Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown, Vir nulla non donandus lauru."

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]



THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty;— Years, years ago, while all my joy Were in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the County Ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And then she danced,—oh, heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talked of politics or prayers,— Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, Of danglers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it mattered not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling: My father frowned; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother, for many a year, Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three-per-cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh, what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,— Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand,— She made the Catilina jealous; She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder-water.

And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle-dog was quite adored; Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished; She frowned, and every took was sad, As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many just for fun,— I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh, How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves,— A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,—and then we parted.

We parted: months and years rolled by; We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh,— Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For, in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]



THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

I'll sing you a good old song, Made by a good old pate, Of a fine old English gentleman Who had an old estate, And who kept up his old mansion At a bountiful old rate; With a good old porter to relieve The old poor at his gate, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around With pikes and guns and bows, And swords, and good old bucklers, That had stood some tough old blows; 'Twas there "his worship" held his state In doublet and trunk hose, And quaffed his cup of good old sack, To warm his good old nose, Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow, He opened house to all; And though threescore and ten his years, He featly led the ball; Nor was the houseless wanderer E'er driven from his hall; For while he feasted all the great, He ne'er forgot the small; Like a fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

But time, though old, is strong in flight, And years rolled swiftly by; And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed This good old man must die! He laid him down right tranquilly, Gave up life's latest sigh; And mournful stillness reigned around, And tears bedewed each eye, For this fine old English gentleman All of the olden time.

Now surely this is better far Than all the new parade Of theaters and fancy balls, "At home" and masquerade: And much more economical, For all his bills were paid, Then leave your new vagaries quite, And take up the old trade Of a fine old English gentleman, All of the olden time.

Unknown



A TERNARIE OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY

A Little Saint best fits a little Shrine, A little Prop best fits a little Vine, As my small Cruse best fits my little Wine.

A little Seed best fits a little Soil, A little Trade best fits a little Toil, As my small Jar best fits my little Oil.

A little Bin best fits a little Bread, A little Garland fits a little Head, As my small Stuff best fits my little Shed.

A little Hearth best fits a little Fire, A little Chapel fits a little Quire, As my small Bell best fits my little Spire.

A little Stream best fits a little Boat, A little Lead best fits a little Float, As my small Pipe best fits my little Note.

A little Meat best fits a little Belly, As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little Pipkin fits this little Jelly.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



CHIVALRY AT A DISCOUNT

Fair cousin mine! the golden days Of old romance are over; And minstrels now care naught for bays, Nor damsels for a lover; And hearts are cold, and lips are mute That kindled once with passion, And now we've neither lance nor lute, And tilting's out of fashion.

Yet weeping Beauty mourns the time When Love found words in flowers; When softest test sighs were breathed in rhyme, And sweetest songs in bowers; Now wedlock is a sober thing— No more of chains or forges!— A plain young man—a plain gold ring— The curate—and St. George's.

Then every cross-bow had a string, And every heart a fetter; And making love was quite the thing, And making verses better; And maiden-aunts were never seen, And gallant beaux were plenty; And lasses married at sixteen, And died at one-and-twenty.

Then hawking was a noble sport, And chess a pretty science; And huntsmen learned to blow a morte, And heralds a defiance; And knights and spearmen showed their might, And timid hinds took warning; And hypocras was warmed at night, And coursers in the morning.

Then plumes and pennons were prepared, And patron-saints were lauded; And noble deeds were bravely dared, And noble dames applauded; And Beauty played the leech's part, And wounds were healed with syrup; And warriors sometimes lost a heart, But never lost a stirrup.

Then there was no such thing as Fear, And no such word as Reason; And Faith was like a pointed spear, And Fickleness was treason; And hearts were soft, though blows were hard; But when the fight was over, A brimming goblet cheered the board, His Lady's smile the lover.

Ay, those were golden days! The moon Had then her true adorers; And there were lyres and lutes in tune, And no such thing as snorers; And lovers swam, and held at naught Streams broader than the Mersey; And fifty thousand would have fought For a smile from Lady Jersey.

Then people wore an iron vest, And bad no use for tailors; And the artizans who lived the best Were armorers and nailers; And steel was measured by the ell And trousers lined with leather; And jesters wore a cap and bell, And knights a cap and feather.

Then single folks might live at ease, And married ones might sever; Uncommon doctors had their fees, But Doctor's Commons never; O! had we in those times been bred, Fair cousin, for thy glances, Instead of breaking Priscian's head, I had been breaking lances!

Edward Fitzgerald [1809-1883]



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is— The New Street of the Little Fields; And there's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case— The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is— A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terre's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here the lamp is as before; The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is Terre still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace; He'd come and smile before your table And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter; nothing's changed or older. "How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder;— "Monsieur is dead this many a day." "It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest Terre's run his race!" "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" "Tell me a good one." "That I can, Sir; The Chambertin with yellow seal." "So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."

My old accustomed corner here is,— The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanished many a busy year is, This well-known chair since last I took, When first I saw ye, cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine? Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty— I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the Gazette; On James's head the grass is growing: Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place—but not alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me. —There's no one now to share my cup....

I drink it as the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes; Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. —Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



TO MY GRANDMOTHER Suggested By A Picture By Mr. Romney

Under the elm a rustic seat Was merriest Susan's pet retreat To merry-make

This Relative of mine Was she seventy-and-nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen, As a Bride.

Beneath a summer tree Her maiden reverie Has a charm; Her ringlets are in taste; What an arm! and what a waist For an arm!

With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Lace farthingale, and gay Falbala,— If Romney's touch be true, What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa!

Her lips are sweet as love; They are parting! Do they move? Are they dumb? Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, "Come!"

What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips? Whisper me, Fair Sorceress in paint, What canon says I mayn't Marry thee?

That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime! When I first Saw this Lady, in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst.

Her locks, as white as snow, Once shamed the swarthy crow; By-and-by That fowl's avenging sprite Set his cruel foot for spite Near her eye.

Her rounded form was lean, And her silk was bombazine: Well I wot With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit.— Would she not?

Ah perishable clay! Her charms had dropped away One by one: But if she heaved a sigh With a burden, it was, "Thy Will be done."

In travail, as in tears, With the fardel of her years Overpressed, In mercy she was borne Where the weary and the worn Are at rest.

Oh, if you now are there, And sweet as once you were, Grandmamma, This nether world agrees You'll all the better please Grandpapa.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]



MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

She has dancing eyes and ruby lips, Delightful boots—and away she skips

They nearly strike me dumb,— I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means These Boots are Geraldine's— Think of that!

O, where did hunter win So delicate a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my Sweet.

The fairy stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And reveals That the Pixies were the wags Who tipped these funny tags, And these heels.

What soles to charm an elf!— Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, O, how hard he would have tried For the two!

For Gerry's debonair, And innocent and fair As a rose; She's an Angel in a frock,— She's an Angel with a clock To her hose!

The simpletons who squeeze Their pretty toes to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's.

Cinderella's lefts and rights To Geraldine's were frights: And I trow The Damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don, Set your dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, Dear, and I'll Put them on.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]



A GARDEN LYRIC Geraldine And I

Dite, Damasippe, deaeque Verum ob consilium donent tonsore.

We have loitered and laughed in the flowery croft, We have met under wintry skies; Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft Is the light in her wistful eyes; It is bliss in the silent woods, among Gay crowds, or in any place, To mould her mind, to gaze in her young Confiding face.

For ever may roses divinely blow, And wine-dark pansies charm By that prim box path where I felt the glow Of her dimpled, trusting arm, And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiled A smile as pure as her pearls; The breeze was in love with the darling Child, And coaxed her curls.

She showed me her ferns and woodbine sprays, Foxglove and jasmine stars, A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze Of red in the celadon jars: And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, And roses of bountiful Spring. But I said—"Though roses and bees have spells, They have thorn, and sting."

She showed me ripe peaches behind a net As fine as her veil, and fat Goldfish a-gape, who lazily met For her crumbs—I grudged them that! A squirrel, some rabbits with long lop ears, And guinea-pigs, tortoise-shell—wee; And I told her that eloquent truth inheres In all we see.

I lifted her doe by its lops, quoth I, "Even here deep meaning lies,— Why have squirrels these ample tails, and why Have rabbits these prominent eyes?" She smiled and said, as she twirled her veil, "For some nice little cause, no doubt— If you lift a guinea-pig up by the tail His eyes drop out!"

Frederick Locker Lampson [1821-1895]



MRS. SMITH

Heigh-ho! they're wed. The cards are dealt, Our frolic games are o'er; I've laughed, and fooled, and loved. I've felt— As I shall feel no more! Yon little thatch is where she lives, Yon spire is where she met me;— I think that if she quite forgives, She cannot quite forget me.

Last year I trod these fields with Di,— Fields fresh with clover and with rye; They now seem arid: Then Di was fair and single; how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di's fair,—and married!

A blissful swain,—I scorned the song Which tells us though young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger: Then breezes blew a boon to men, Then buttercups were bright, and then The grass was longer.

That day I saw, and much esteemed, Di's ankles, that the clover seemed Inclined to smother: It twitched, and soon untied (for fun) The ribbons of her shoes, first one, And then the other.

I'm told that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday: And so did Di,—and then her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied, Are "so untidy!"

Of course I knelt; with fingers deft I tied the right, and tied the left: Says Di, "This stubble Is very stupid!—as I live I'm quite ashamed!—I'm shocked to give You so much trouble!"

For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present: "Don't mention such a simple act— A trouble? not the least! In fact It's rather pleasant!"

I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover. She's happy now as Mrs. Smith— But less polite when walking with Her chosen lover!

Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal strings, We had our quarrels. I think that Smith is thought an ass,— I know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorals.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]



THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD

The characters of great and small Come ready made, we can't bespeak one; Their sides are many, too, and all (Except ourselves) have got a weak one. Some sanguine people love for life, Some love their hobby till it flings them. How many love a pretty wife For love of the eclat she brings them!...

A little to relieve my mind I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, But more because I'm disinclined To enter on a painful matter: Once I was bashful; I'll allow I've blushed for words untimely spoken; I still am rather shy, and now... And now the ice is fairly broken.

We all have secrets: you have one Which may n't be quite your charming spouse's; We all lock up a Skeleton In some grim chamber of our houses; Familiars who exhaust their days And nights in probing where our smart is, And who, for all their spiteful ways, Are "silent, unassuming Parties."

We hug this Phantom we detest, Rarely we let it cross our portals: It is a most exacting guest, And we are much afflicted mortals. Your neighbor Gay, that jovial wight, As Dives rich, and brave as Hector, Poor Gay steals twenty times a night, On shaking knees, to see his Specter.

Old Dives fears a pauper fate, So hoarding is his ruling passion:— Some gloomy souls anticipate A waistcoat, straiter than the fashion! She childless pines, that lonely wife, And secret tears are bitter shedding; Hector may tremble all his life, And die,—but not of that he's dreading....

Ah me, the World! How fast it spins! The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles; They shriek, they stir it for our sins, And we must drain it for our troubles. We toil, we groan; the cry for love Mounts up from this poor seething city, And yet I know we have above A Father, infinite in pity.

When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, Where sunbeams play, where shadows darken, One inmate of our dwelling keeps Its ghastly carnival; but hearken! How dry the rattle of the bones! That sound was not to make you start meant: Stand by! Your humble servant owns The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]



A TERRIBLE INFANT

I recollect a nurse called Ann, Who carried me about the grass, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kissed the pretty lass: She did not make the least objection! Thinks I, "Aha! When I can talk I'll tell Mamma" —And that's my earliest recollection.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]



COMPANIONS A Tale Of A Grandfather

I know not of what we pondered Or made pretty pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wandered. Toward the pool by the lime-tree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own? Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Fairy Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like I know not: Perhaps they were blurred with tears; And perhaps in yon skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres. No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde? Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand? That I failed to remark: it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine,—was it plump or spare? Was the countenance fair or ugly? Nay, children, you have me there! My eyes were p'haps blurred; and besides I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I,—was I brusque and surly? Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early? Or why did we twain abscond, When nobody knew, from the public view To prowl by a misty pond?

What passed, what was felt or spoken,— Whether anything passed at all,— And whether the heart was broken That beat under that sheltering shawl,— (If shawl she had on, which I doubt),—has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor? Or her uncle? I can't make out; Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And what this is all about.

Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]



DOROTHY Q A Family Portrait

Grandmother's mother: her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less: Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; Lips that lover has never kissed; Taper fingers and slender wrist; Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; So they painted the little maid.

On her hand a parrot green Sits unmoving and broods serene. Hold up the canvas full in view,— Look! there's a rent the light shines through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust,— That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.

Who the painter was none may tell,— One whose best was not over well; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Dainty colors of red and white, And in her slender shape are seen Hint and promise of stately mien.

Look not on her with eyes of scorn,— Dorothy Q. was a lady born! Ay! since the galloping Normans came, England's annals have known her name; And still to the three-hilled rebel town Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreath they won, The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.

O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.! Strange is the gift that I owe to you; Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring,— All my tenure of heart and hand, All my title to house and land; Mother and sister and child and wife And joy and sorrow and death and life!

What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name, And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill? Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another, to nine tenths me?

Soft is the breath of a maiden's YES: Not the light gossamer stirs with less; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast, And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babbling air so long! There were tones in the voice that whispered then You may hear to-day in a hundred men.

O lady and lover, how faint and far Your images hover,—and here we are Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,— Edward's and Dorothy's—all their own,— A goodly record for Time to show Of a syllable spoken so long ago!— Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive For the tender whisper that bade me live?

It shall be a blessing, my little maid! I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame, And gild with a rhyme your household name; So you shall smile on us brave and bright As first you greeted the morning's light, And live untroubled by woes and fears Through a second youth of a hundred years.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]



MY AUNT

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt! Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her,—though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way? How can she lay her glasses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

Her father,—grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles,— Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."

They braced my aunt against a board, To make her straight and tall; They laced her up, they starved her down, To make her light and small; They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, They screwed it up with pins;— Oh, never mortal suffered more In penance for her sins.

So, when my precious aunt was done, My grandsire brought her back; (By daylight, lest some rabid youth Might follow on the track;) "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man!"

Alas! nor chariot, nor barouche, Nor bandit cavalcade, Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid. For her how happy had it been! And Heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]



THE LAST LEAF

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said,— Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago,— That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow:

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]



CONTENTMENT "Man wants but little here below"

Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own;— And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten;— If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victual nice;— My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;— Give me a mortgage here and there,— Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,— I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,— But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things;— One good-sized diamond in a pin,— Some, not so large, in rings,— A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;—I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good heavy silks are never dear;)— I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere,— Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait—two forty-five— Suits me; I do not care;— Perhaps, far just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four,— I love so much their style and tone,— One Turner, and no more, (A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,— The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,—some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;— Some little luxury there Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride;— One Stradivarius, I confess, Two meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;— Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share,— I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,— Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]



THE BOYS

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who, says we are more? He's tipsy,—young jackanapes!—show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white if we please! Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! Look close,—you will not see a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed,— And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old:— That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;" It's a neat little fiction,—of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"—the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name?—don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true! So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,— Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,— Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?—You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we're boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen,— And I sometimes have asked,—Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, The Boys!

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]



THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE

'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, Tall and slender, and sallow and dry; His form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow, But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye; And he sang every night as he went to bed, "Let us be happy down here below: The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He taught his scholars the rule of three, Writing, and reading, and history, too; He took the little ones up on his knee, For a kind old heart in his breast had he, And the wants of the littlest child he knew: "Learn while you're young," he often said, "There is much to enjoy, down here below; Life for the living, and rest for the dead!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

With the stupidest boys he was kind and cool, Speaking only in gentlest tones; The rod was hardly known in his school... Whipping, to him, was a barbarous rule, And too hard work for his poor old bones; Besides, it was painful, he sometimes said: "We should make life pleasant, down here below, The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, With roses and woodbine over the door; His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, But a spirit of comfort there held reign, And made him forget he was old and poor; "I need so little," he often said; "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, Were the sociable hours he used to pass, With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall, Making an unceremonious call, Over a pipe and a friendly glass: This was the finest picture, he said, Of the many he tasted, here below; "Who has no cronies, had better be dead!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Melted all over in sunshiny smiles; He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, Till the house grew merry, from cellar to tiles: "I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, "I've lingered a long while, here below; But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown: And, feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, 'Twas a glorious world, down here below; "Why wait for happiness till we are dead?" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago.

He sat at his door, one midsummer night, After the sun had sunk in the west, And the lingering beams of golden light Made his kindly old face look warm and bright, While the odorous night-wind whispered "Rest!" Gently, gently, he bowed his head.... There were angels waiting for him, I know; He was sure of happiness, living or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long ago!

George Arnold [1834-1865]



ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA

Beneath the warrior's helm, behold The flowing tresses of the woman! Minerva, Pallas, what you will— A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.

Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx In cousin's helmet masquerading; If not—then Wisdom was a dame For sonnets and for serenading!

I thought the goddess cold, austere, Not made for love's despairs and blisses: Did Pallas wear her hair like that? Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?

The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She's older far than Trajan's Column!

The magic hand that carved this face, And set this vine-work round it running, Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought, Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.

Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion.

Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais.

But he is dust; we may not know His happy or unhappy story: Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him,—there's his glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The countless summers came and went, With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.

Years blotted out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom, Till some Visconti dug it up,— To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!

O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

Who would not suffer slights of men, And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



THALIA A Middle-aged Lyrical Poet Is supposed To Be Taking Final Leave Of The Muse Of Comedy. She Has Brought Him His Hat And Gloves, And Is Abstractedly Picking A Thread Of Gold Hair From His Coat Sleeve As He Begins To Speak:

I say it under the rose— oh, thanks!—yes, under the laurel, We part lovers, not foes; we are not going to quarrel.

We have too long been friends on foot and in gilded coaches, Now that the whole thing ends, to spoil our kiss with reproaches.

I leave you; my soul is wrung; I pause, look back from the portal— Ah, I no more am young, and you, child, you are immortal!

Mine is the glacier's way, yours is the blossom's weather— When were December and May known to be happy together?

Before my kisses grow tame, before my moodiness grieve you, While yet my heart is flame, and I all lover, I leave you.

So, in the coming time, when you count the rich years over, Think of me in my prime, and not as a white-haired lover,

Fretful, pierced with regret, the wraith of a dead Desire Thrumming a cracked spinet by a slowly dying fire.

When, at last, I am cold— years hence, if the gods so will it— Say, "He was true as gold," and wear a rose in your fillet!

Others, tender as I, will come and sue for caresses, Woo you, win you, and die— mind you, a rose in your tresses!

Some Melpomene woo, some hold Clio the nearest; You, sweet Comedy—you were ever sweetest and dearest!

Nay, it is time to go. When writing your tragic sister Say to that child of woe how sorry I was I missed her.

Really, I cannot stay, though "parting is such sweet sorrow"... Perhaps I will, on my way down-town, look in to-morrow!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



PAN IN WALL STREET A. D. 1867

Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations; Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations; Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple,—

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction's hammer; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-to-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned.

'Twas Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas,— From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times,—to these Far shores and twenty centuries later.

A ragged cap was on his head; But—hidden thus—there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.

He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goat's-eyes looked around Where'er the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him.

The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stayed to list,— A boxer Aegon, rough and merry, A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng,— A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!

A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her,— Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands,— Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

So thought I,—but among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton, And scoffed the vagrant demigod, And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry, "Great Pan is dead!"—and all the people Went on their ways:—and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple.

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]



UPON LESBIA—ARGUING

My Lesbia, I will not deny, Bewitches me completely; She has the usual beaming eye, And smiles upon me sweetly: But she has an unseemly way Of contradicting what I say.

And, though I am her closest friend, And find her fascinating, I cannot cordially commend Her method of debating: Her logic, though she is divine, Is singularly feminine.

Her reasoning is full of tricks, And butterfly suggestions, I know no point to which she sticks, She begs the simplest questions; And, when her premises are strong, She always draws her inference wrong.

Broad, liberal views on men and things She will not hear a word of; To prove herself correct she brings Some instance she has heard of; The argument ad hominem Appears her favorite strategem.

Old Socrates, with sage replies To questions put to suit him, Would not, I think, have looked so wise With Lesbia to confute him; He would more probably have bade Xantippe hasten to his aid.

Ah! well, my fair philosopher, With clear brown eyes that glisten So sweetly, that I much prefer To look at them than listen, Preach me your sermon: have your way, The voice is yours, whate'er you say.

Alfred Cochrane [1865-



TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING (New Style)

Am I sincere? I say I dote On everything that Browning wrote; I know some bits by heart to quote: But then She reads him. I say—and is it strictly true?— How I admire her cockatoo; Well! in a way of course I do: But then She feeds him.

And I become, at her command, The sternest Tory in the land; The Grand Old Man is far from grand; But then She states it. Nay! worse than that, I am so tame, I once admitted—to my shame— That football was a brutal game: Because She hates it.

My taste in Art she hailed with groans, And I, once charmed with bolder tones, Now love the yellows of Burne-Jones: But then She likes them. My tuneful soul no longer hoards Stray jewels from the Empire boards; I revel now in Dvorak's chords: But then She strikes them.

Our age distinctly cramps a knight; Yet, though debarred from tilt and fight, I can admit that black is white, If She asserts it. Heroes of old were luckier men Than I—I venture now and then To hint—retracting meekly when She controverts it.

Alfred Cochrane [1865-



THE EIGHT-DAY CLOCK

The days of Bute and Grafton's fame, Of Chatham's waning prime, First heard your sounding gong proclaim Its chronicle of Time; Old days when Dodd confessed his guilt, When Goldsmith drave his quill, And genial gossip Horace built His house on Strawberry Hill.

Now with a grave unmeaning face You still repeat the tale, High-towering in your somber case, Designed by Chippendale; Without regret for what is gone, You bid old customs change, As year by year you travel on To scenes and voices strange.

We might have mingled with the crowd Of courtiers in this hall, The fans that swayed, the wigs that bowed, But you have spoiled it all; We might have lingered in the train Of nymphs that Reynolds drew, Or stared spell-bound in Drury Lane At Garrick—but for you.

We might in Leicester Fields have swelled The throng of beaux and cits, Or listened to the concourse held Among the Kitcat wits; Have strolled with Selwyn in Pall Mall, Arrayed in gorgeous silks, Or in Great George Street raised a yell For Liberty and Wilkes.

This is the life which you have known, Which you have ticked away, In one unmoved unfaltering tone That ceased not day by day, While ever round your dial moved Your hands from span to span, Through drowsy hours and hours that proved Big with the fate of man.

A steady tick for fatal creeds, For youth on folly bent, A steady tick for worthy deeds, And moments wisely spent; No warning note of emphasis, No whisper of advice, To ruined rake or flippant miss, For coquetry or dice.

You might, I think, have hammered out With meaning doubly dear, The midnight of a Vauxhall rout In Evelina's ear; Or when the night was almost gone, You might, the deals between, Have startled those who looked upon The cloth when it was green.

But no, in all the vanished years Down which your wheels have run, Your message borne to heedless ears Is one and only one— No wit of men, no power of kings, Can stem the overthrow Wrought by this pendulum that swings Sedately to and fro.

Alfred Cochrane [1865-



A PORTRAIT

In sunny girlhood's vernal life She caused no small sensation, But now the modest English wife To others leaves flirtation. She's young still, lovely, debonair, Although sometimes her features Are clouded by a thought of care For those two tiny creatures.

Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite Asserts with voice emphatic, In lisping accents, "Mite is right," Their rule is autocratic: The song becomes, that charmed mankind, Their musical narcotic, And baby lips than Love, she'll find, Are even more despotic.

Soft lullaby when singing there, And castles ever building, Their destiny she'll carve in air, Bright with maternal gilding: Young Guy, a clever advocate, So eloquent and able! A powdered wig upon his pate, A coronet for Mabel!

Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838-1917]



"OLD BOOKS ARE BEST"

Old Books are best! With what delight Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight On frontispiece or title-page Of that old time, when on the stage "Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight!

And you, O Friend, to whom I write, Must not deny, e'en though you might, Through fear of modern pirates' rage, Old Books are best.

What though the print be not so bright, The paper dark, the binding slight? Our author, be he dull or sage, Returning from that distant age So lives again, we say of right: Old Books are best.

Beverly Chew [1850-1924]



IMPRESSION

In these restrained and careful times Our knowledge petrifies our rhymes; Ah! for that reckless fire men had When it was witty to be mad;

When wild conceits were piled in scores, And lit by flaming metaphors, When all was crazed and out of tune,— Yet throbbed with music of the moon.

If we could dare to write as ill As some whose voices haunt us still, Even we, perchance, might call our own Their deep enchanting undertone.

We are too diffident and nice, Too learned and too over-wise, Too much afraid of faults to be The flutes of bold sincerity.

For, as this sweet life passes by, We blink and nod with critic eye; We've no words rude enough to give Its charm so frank and fugitive.

The green and scarlet of the Park, The undulating streets at dark, The brown smoke blown across the blue, This colored city we walk through;—

The pallid faces full of pain, The field-smell of the passing wain, The laughter, longing, perfume, strife, The daily spectacle of life;—

Ah! how shall this be given to rhyme, By rhymesters of a knowing time? Ah! for the age when verse was clad, Being godlike, to be bad and mad.

Edmund Gosse [1849-1928]



"WITH STRAWBERRIES"

With strawberries we filled a tray, And then we drove away, away Along the links beside the sea, Where wave and wind were light and free, And August felt as fresh as May,

And where the springy turf was gay With thyme and balm and many a spray Of wild roses, you tempted me With strawberries!

A shadowy sail, silent and gray, Stole like a ghost across the bay; But none could hear me ask my fee, And none could know what came to be. Can sweethearts all their thirst allay With strawberries?

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]



BALLADE OF LADIES' NAMES

Brown's for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows, Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. The glamor stays if the reason goes! Every lover the years disclose Is of a beautiful name made free. One befriends, and all others are foes. Anna's the name of names for me.

Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia; Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose; Courtly memories glitter in Celia; Rosalind savors of quips and hose, Araminta of wits and beaux, Prue of puddings, and Coralie All of sawdust and spangled shows; Anna's the name of names for me.

Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia— These I reckon the essence of prose!— Cavalier Katherine, cold Cornelia, Portia's masterful Roman nose, Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes, Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes! Anna's the name of names for me.

ENVOY Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows, Sylvia prattles of Arcadee, Sybil mystifies, Connie crows, Anna's the name of names for me!

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]



TO A PAIR OF EGYPTIAN SLIPPERS

Tiny slippers of gold and green, Tied with a mouldering golden cord! What pretty feet they must have been When Caesar Augustus was Egypt's lord! Somebody graceful and fair you were! Not many girls could dance in these! When did your shoemaker make you, dear, Such a nice pair of Egyptian "threes"?

Where were you measured? In Sais, or On, Memphis, or Thebes, or Pelusium? Fitting them neatly your brown toes upon, Lacing them deftly with finger and thumb, I seem to see you!—so long ago, Twenty-one centuries, less or more! And here are your sandals: yet none of us know What name, or fortune, or face you bore.

Your lips would have laughed, with a rosy scorn, If the merchant, or slave-girl, had mockingly said, "The feet will pass, but the shoes they have worn Two thousand years onward Time's road shall tread, And still be footgear as good as new!" To think that calf-skin, gilded and stitched, Should Rome and the Pharaohs outlive—and you Be gone, like a dream, from the world you bewitched!

Not that we mourn you! 'Twere too absurd! You have been such a very long while away! Your dry spiced dust would not value one word Of the soft regrets that my verse could say. Sorrow and Pleasure, and Love and Hate, If you ever felt them, have vaporized hence To this odor—so subtle and delicate— Of myrrh, and cassia, and frankincense.

Of course they embalmed you! Yet not so sweet Were aloes and nard, as the youthful glow Which Amenti stole when the small dark feet Wearied of treading our world below. Look! it was flood-time in valley of Nile, Or a very wet day in the Delta, dear! When your slippers tripped lightly their latest mile— The mud on the soles renders that fact clear.

You knew Cleopatra, no doubt! You saw Antony's galleys from Actium come. But there! if questions could answers draw From lips so many a long age dumb, I would not tease you with history, Nor vex your heart for the men that were; The one point to learn that would fascinate me Is, where and what are you to-day, my dear!

You died, believing in Horus and Pasht, Isis, Osiris, and priestly lore; And found, of course, such theories smashed By actual fact on the heavenly shore. What next did you do? Did you transmigrate? Have we seen you since, all modern and fresh? Your charming soul—so I calculate— Mislaid its mummy, and sought new flesh.

Were you she whom I met at dinner last week, With eyes and hair of the Ptolemy black, Who still of this find in Fayoum would speak, And to Pharaohs and scarabs still carry us back? A scent of lotus about her hung, And she had such a far-away wistful air As of somebody born when the Earth was young; And she wore of gilt slippers a lovely pair.

Perchance you were married? These might have been Part of your trousseau—the wedding shoes; And you laid them aside with the garments green, And painted clay Gods which a bride would use; And, may be, to-day, by Nile's bright waters Damsels of Egypt in gowns of blue— Great-great-great—very great—grand-daughters Owe their shapely insteps to you!

But vainly I beat at the bars of the Past, Little green slippers with golden strings! For all you can tell is that leather will last When loves, and delightings, and beautiful things Have vanished; forgotten—No! not quite that! I catch some gleam of the grace you wore When you finished with Life's daily pit-a-pat, And left your shoes at Death's bedroom door.

You were born in the Egypt which did not doubt; You were never sad with our new-fashioned sorrows: You were sure, when your play-days on Earth ran out, Of play-times to come, as we of our morrows! Oh, wise little Maid of the Delta! I lay Your shoes in your mummy-chest back again, And wish that one game we might merrily play At "Hunt the Slippers"—to see it all plain.

Edwin Arnold [1832-1904]



WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there, Looks through the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do,—but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fists in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, In golden quiets of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble sour and thin.

I envy him the ungyved prance With which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's-chains and dance The galley-slave of dreary forms.

Oh, could, he have my share of din, And I his quiet!—past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without.

Nay, when, once paid my mortal fee, Some idler on my headstone grim Traces the moss-blurred name, will he Think me the happier, or I him?

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



"SHE WAS A BEAUTY"

She was a beauty in the days When Madison was President, And quite coquettish in her ways,— On conquests of the heart intent.

Grandpapa, on his right knee bent, Wooed her in stiff, old-fashioned phrase,— She was a beauty in the days When Madison was President.

And when your roses where hers went Shall go, my Rose, who date from Hayes, I hope you'll wear her sweet content Of whom tradition lightly says: She was a beauty in the days When Madison was President.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]



NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING-GLASS

Glass antique, 'twixt thee and Nell Draw we here a parallel. She, like thee, was forced to bear All reflections, foul or fair. Thou art deep and bright within, Depths as bright belonged to Gwynne; Thou art very frail as well, Frail as flesh is,—so was Nell.

Thou, her glass, art silver-lined, She too, had a silver mind: Thine is fresh till this far day, Hers till death ne'er wore away: Thou dost to thy surface win Wandering glances, so did Gwynne; Eyes on thee love long to dwell, So men's eyes would do on Nell.

Life-like forms in thee are sought, Such the forms the actress wrought; Truth unfailing rests in you, Nell, whate'er she was, was true. Clear as virtue, dull as sin, Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne; Breathe on thee, and drops will swell: Bright tears dimmed the eyes of Nell.

Thine's a frame to charm the sight, Framed was she to give delight; Waxen forms here truly show Charles above and Nell below; But between them, chin with chin, Stuart stands as low as Gwynne,— Paired, yet parted,—meant to tell Charles was opposite to Nell.

Round the glass wherein her face Smiled so soft, her "arms" we trace; Thou, her mirror, hast the pair, Lion here, and leopard there. She had part in these,—akin To the lion-heart was Gwynne; And the leopard's beauty fell With its spots to bounding Nell.

Oft inspected, ne'er seen through, Thou art firm, if brittle too; So her will, on good intent, Might be broken, never bent. What the glass was, when therein Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne, Was that face by beauty's spell To the honest soul of Nell.

Laman Blanchard [1804-1845]



MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still: Your chilly stars I can forego, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To sexless souls, ideal choirs, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remembered tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But oh, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.

William Johnson-Cory [1823-1892]



CLAY

"We are but clay," the preacher saith; "The heart is clay, and clay the brain, And soon or late there cometh death To mingle us with earth again."

Well, let the preacher have it so, And clay we are, and clay shall be;— Why iterate?—for this I know, That clay does very well for me.

When clay has such red mouths to kiss, Firm hands to grasp, it is enough: How can I take it aught amiss We are not made of rarer stuff?

And if one tempt you to believe His choice would be immortal gold, Question him, Can you then conceive A warmer heart than clay can hold?

Or richer joys than clay can feel? And when perforce he falters nay, Bid him renounce his wish and kneel In thanks for this same kindly clay.

Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-



AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE

What magic halo rings thy head, Dream-maiden of a minstrel dead? What charm of faerie round thee hovers, That all who listen are thy lovers?

What power yet makes our pulses thrill To see thee at thy window-sill, And by that dangerous cord down-sliding, And through the moonlit garden gliding?

True maiden art thou in thy dread; True maiden in thy hardihead; True maiden when, thy fears half-over, Thou lingerest to try thy lover.

And ah! what heart of stone or steel But doth some stir unwonted feel, When to the day new brightness bringing Thou standest at the stair-foot singing!

Thy slender limbs in boyish dress, Thy tones half glee, half tenderness, Thou singest, 'neath the light tale's cover, Of thy true love to thy true lover.

O happy lover, happy maid, Together in sweet story laid; Forgive the hand that here is baring Your old loves for new lovers' staring!

Yet, Nicolete, why fear'st thou fame? No slander now can touch thy name, Nor Scandal's self a fault discovers, Though each new year thou hast new lovers.

Nor, Aucassin, need'st thou to fear These lovers of too late a year, Nor dread one jealous pang's revival; No lover now can be thy rival.

What flower considers if its blooms Light, haunts of men, or forest glooms? What care ye though the world discovers Your flowers of love, O flower of lovers!

Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]



PROVENCAL LOVERS Aucassin And Nicolette

Within the garden of Beaucaire He met her by a secret stair,— The night was centuries ago. Said Aucassin, "My love, my pet, These old confessors vex me so! They threaten all the pains of hell Unless I give you up, ma belle";— Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

"Now who should there in Heaven be To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie? To reach that spot I little care! There all the droning priests are met; All the old cripples, too, are there That unto shrines and altars cling To filch the Peter-pence we bring";— Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

"There are the barefoot monks and friars With gowns well tattered by the briars, The saints who lift their eyes and whine: I like them not—a starveling set! Who'd care with folk like these to dine? The other road 'twere just as well That you and I should take, ma belle!"— Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

"To purgatory I would go With pleasant comrades whom we know, Fair scholars, minstrels, lusty knights Whose deeds the land will not forget, The captains of a hundred fights, The men of valor and degree: We'll join that gallant company,"— Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

"There, too, are jousts and joyance rare, And beauteous ladies debonair, The pretty dames, the merry brides, Who with their wedded lords coquette And have a friend or two besides,— And all in gold and trappings gay, With furs, and crests in vair and gray,"— Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

"Sweet players on the cithern strings, And they who roam the world like kings, Are gathered there, so blithe and free! Pardie! I'd join them now, my pet, If you went also, ma douce mie! The joys of Heaven I'd forego To have you with me there below,"— Said Aucassin to Nicolette.

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]



ON THE HURRY OF THIS TIME

With slower pen men used to write, Of old, when "letters" were "polite"; In Anna's or in George's days, They could afford to turn a phrase, Or trim a struggling theme aright.

They knew not steam; electric light Not yet had dazed their calmer sight;— They meted out both blame and praise With slower pen.

Too swiftly now the Hours take flight! What's read at morn is dead at night: Scant space have we for Art's delays, Whose breathless thought so briefly stays, We may not work—ah! would we might!— With slower pen.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!" Si vieillesse pouvait!—

Scene.—A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman.

Monsieur Vieuxbois Babette

M. Vieuxbois (turning querulously) Day of my life! Where can she get! Babette! I say! Babette!—Babette!

Babette (entering hurriedly) Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks So loud, he won't be well for weeks!

M. Vieuxbois Where have you been?

Babette Why M'sieu' knows:— April!... Ville d'Avray!... Ma'am'selle Rose!

M. Vieuxbois Ah! I am old,—and I forget. Was the place growing green, Babette?

Babette But of a greenness!—yes, M'sieu'! And then the sky so blue!—so blue! And when I dropped my immortelle, How the birds sang! (Lifting her apron to her eyes) This poor Ma'am'selle!

M. Vieuxbois You're a good girl, Babette, but she,— She was an Angel, verily. Sometimes I think I see her yet Stand smiling by the cabinet; And once, I know, she peeped and laughed Betwixt the curtains... Where's the draught? (She gives him a cup) Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette;— Sing me your Norman chansonnette.

Babette (sings) "Once at the Angelus, (Ere I was dead), Angels all glorious Came to my bed; Angels in blue and white Crowned on the Head."

M. Vieuxbois (drowsily) "She was an Angel"... "Once she laughed"... What, was I dreaming? Where's the draught?

Babette (showing the empty cup) The draught, M'sieu'?

M. Vieuxbois How I forget! I am so old! But sing, Babette!

Babette (sings) "One was the Friend I left Stark in the Snow; One was the Wife that died Long,—long ago; One was the Love I lost... How could she know?"

M. Vieuxbois (murmuring) Ah, Paul!... old Paul!... Eulalie too! And Rose... And O! "the sky so blue!"

Babette (sings) "One had my Mother's eyes, Wistful and mild; One had my Father's face; One was a Child: All of them bent to me,— Bent down and smiled!" (He is asleep!)

M. Vieuxbois (almost inaudibly) "How I forget!" "I am so old!"... "Good-night, Babette!"

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO Le tempo le mieux employe est celui qu'on perd.—Claude Tillier

I'd "read" three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming,

Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book,—a maze Of muslin mixed with roses.

"You're reading Greek?" "I am—and you?" "O, mine's a mere romancer!" "So Plato is." "Then read him—do; And I'll read mine for answer."

I read: "My Plato (Plato, too— That wisdom thus should harden!) Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.'"

She smiled. "My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mistranslated."

"But hear,—the next's in stronger style: The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted!"

She smiled once more. "My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of album-verse concoctors."

Then I: "Why not? 'Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw Diana's apparition."

She blushed,—this time. "If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham Beeches."

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates (I find he too is talking) Thinks Learning can't remain at ease When Beauty goes a-walking."

She read no more. I leapt the sill: The sequel's scarce essential— Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S A Proper New Ballad Of The Country And The Town

Phyllida amo ante alias.—Virgil

The ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's! They are so fine and fair, You'd think a box of essences Was broken in the air: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! The breath of heath and furze When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays for ever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,— It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's! You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are clear as after rain-drops The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's! They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you—for seconds, They frown on you—for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, Is always true—and mine.

My Phyllida! my Phyllida! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida—for Phyllida Is all the world to me!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



THE CURE'S PROGRESS

Monsieur the Cure down the street Comes with his kind old face,— With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place", And the tiny "Hotel-de-Ville"; He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose, And the pompier Theophile.

He turns, as a rule, through the "Marche" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the "Belle Therese", As she knits in her dusky stall.

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes In his tails for a pain d'epice.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!" And a pinch from the Cure's box.

There is also a word that no one heard To the furrier's daughter Lou.; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, And a "Ben Dieu garde M'sieu'!"

But a grander way for the Sous-Prefet, And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne; And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat, And a nod to the Sacristan:—

For ever through life the Cure goes With a smile on his kind old face— With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL

He lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That "Time is Gold," and overlay With toil their pleasure; He held some land, and dwelt thereon,— Where, I forget,—the house is gone; His Christian name, I think, was John,— His surname, Leisure.

Reynolds has painted him,—a face Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, Fresh-colored, frank, with ne'er a trace Of trouble shaded; The eyes are blue, the hair is dressed In plainest way,—one hand is pressed Deep in a flapped canary vest, With buds brocaded.

He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons,—round his throat, A soft cravat;—in all you note An elder fashion,— A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats,—whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, Inspires compassion.

He lived so long ago, you see! Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in "garden trim," And watch, about the fish tank's brim, The swallows darting.

He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue,— He liked the thrush that fed her young,— He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches; He liked to watch the sunlight fall Athwart his ivied orchard wall; Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call Beyond the beeches.

His were the times of Paint and Patch, And yet no Ranelagh could match The sober doves that round his thatch Spread tails and sidled; He liked their ruffling, puffed content; For him their drowsy wheelings meant More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, Or Belles that bridled.

Not that, in truth, when life began He shunned the flutter of the fan; He too had maybe "pinked his man" In Beauty's quarrel; But now his "fervent youth" had flown Where lost things go; and he was grown As staid and slow-paced as his own Old hunter, Sorrel.

Yet still he loved the chase, and held That no composer's score excelled The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled Its jovial riot; But most his measured words of praise Caressed the angler's easy ways,— His idly meditative days,— His rustic diet.

Not that his "meditating" rose Beyond a sunny summer doze; He never troubled his repose With fruitless prying; But held, as law for high and low, What God withholds no man can know, And smiled away enquiry so, Without replying.

We read—alas, how much we read!— The jumbled strifes of creed and creed With endless controversies feed Our groaning tables; His books—and they sufficed him—were Cotton's Montaigne, The Grave of Blair, A "Walton"—much the worse for wear, And Aesop's Fables.

One more—The Bible. Not that he Had searched its page as deep as we; No sophistries could make him see Its slender credit; It may be that he could not count The sires and sons to Jesse's fount,— He liked the "Sermon on the Mount,"— And more, he read it.

Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked lass who long was dead; His ways were far too slow, he said, To quite forget her; And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her.

"In Coelo Quies" heads the stone On Leisure's grave,—now little known, A tangle of wild-rose has grown So thick across it; The "Benefactions" still declare He left the clerk an elbow-chair, And "12 Pence Yearly to Prepare A Christmas Posset."

Lie softly, Leisure! Doubtless you, With too serene a conscience drew Your easy breath, and slumbered through The gravest issue; But we, to whom our age allows Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, Look down upon your narrow house, Old friend, and miss you!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



ON A FAN That Belonged To The Marquise De Pompadour

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,— This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Ceil de Boeuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,—to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,— This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez-vous! Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sign and the cue,— This was the Pompadour's fan!

ENVOY Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? —But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour's Fan!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE"

When I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high;— How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky, When I saw you last, Rose!

Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh;— How fast the time goes!

And a life,—how it grows! You were scarcely so shy, When I saw you last, Rose!

In your bosom it shows There's a guest on the sly; (How fast the time goes!)

Is it Cupid? Who knows! Yet you used not to sigh, When I saw you last, Rose;— How fast the time goes!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



URCEUS EXIT

I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet. It began a la mode, I intended an Ode; But Rose crossed the road In her latest new bonnet; I intended an Ode; And it turned to a Sonnet.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



A CORSAGE BOUQUET

Myrtilla, to-night, Wears Jacqueminot roses. She's the loveliest sight! Myrtilla to-night:— Correspondingly light My pocket-book closes. Myrtilla, to-night Wears Jacqueminot roses.

Charles Henry Luders [1858-1891]



TWO TRIOLETS

What he said:— This kiss upon your fan I press— Ah! Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it! And may it from its soft recess— This kiss upon your fan I press— Be blown to you, a shy caress, By this white down, whene'er you use it. This kiss upon your fan I press,— Ah, Sainte Nitouche, you don't refuse it!

What she thought:— To kiss a fan! What a poky poet! The stupid man To kiss a fan When he knows—that—he—can— Or ought to know it— To kiss a fan! What a poky poet!

Harrison Robertson [1856-



THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES From The French Of Francois Villon 1450

Tell me now in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais, Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere,— She whose beauty was more than human?... But where are the snows of yester-year?

Where's Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeilard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From Love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer Sewed in a sack's mouth down the Seine?... But where are the snows of yester-year?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies, With a voice like any mermaiden,— Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde the lady of Maine,— And that good Joan whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed and burned her there,— Mother of God, where are they then?... But where are the snows of yester-year?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Except with this for an overword,— But where are the snows of yester-year?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti [1828-1882]



BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES After Villon

Nay, tell me now in what strange air The Roman Flora dwells to-day, Where Archippiada hides, and where Beautiful Thais has passed away? Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, By mere or stream,—around, below? Lovelier she than a woman of clay; Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

Where is wise Heloise, that care Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders gray; And where's the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way— Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

Where's that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren's lay? Where's Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her? No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

ENVOY Prince, all this week thou needst not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know. One burden answers, ever and aye, "Nay, but where is the last year's snow?"

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]



A BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES After Villon From "If I Were King"

I wonder in what Isle of Bliss Apollo's music fills the air; In what green valley Artemis For young Endymion spreads the snare: Where Venus lingers debonair: The Wind has blown them all away— And Pan lies piping in his lair— Where are the Gods of Yesterday?

Say where the great Semiramis Sleeps in a rose-red tomb; and where The precious dust of Caesar is, Or Cleopatra's yellow hair: Where Alexander Do-and-Dare; The Wind has blown them all away— And Redbeard of the Iron Chair; Where are the Dreams of Yesterday?

Where is the Queen of Herod's kiss, And Phryne in her beauty bare; By what strange sea does Tomyris With Dido and Cassandra share Divine Proserpina's despair; The Wind has blown them all away— For what poor ghost does Helen care? Where are the Girls of Yesterday?

ENVOY Alas for lovers! Pair by pair The Wind has blown them all away: The young and yare, the fond and fair: Where are the Snows of Yesterday?

Justin Huntly McCarthy [1860-1936]



IF I WERE KING After Villon From "If I Were King"

All French folk, whereso'er ye be, Who love your country, sail and sand, From Paris to the Breton sea, And back again to Norman strand, Forsooth ye seem a silly band, Sheep without shepherd, left to chance— Far otherwise our Fatherland, If Villon were the King of France!

The figure on the throne you see Is nothing but a puppet, planned To wear the regal bravery Of silken coat and gilded wand. Not so we Frenchmen understand The Lord of lion's heart and glance, And such a one would take command If Villon were the King of France!

His counsellors are rogues, Perdie! While men of honest mind are banned To creak upon the Gallows Tree, Or squeal in prisons over-manned We want a chief to bear the brand, And bid the damned Burgundians dance. God! Where the Oriflamme should stand If Villon were the King of France!

ENVOY Louis the Little, play the grand; Buffet the foe with sword and lance; 'Tis what would happen, by this hand, If Villon were the King of France!

Justin Huntly McCarthy [1860-1936]



A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbors—on the wall— Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" The strangest whim has seized me... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay— My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall— I see a little cloud all pink and gray— Perhaps the rector's mother will not call— I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way— I never read the works of Juvenal— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational— And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

ENVOI Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]



CHIFFONS!

Through this our city of delight, This Paris of our joy and play, This Paris perfumed, jeweled, bright, Rouged, powdered, amorous,—ennuye: Across our gilded Quartier, So fair to see, so frail au fond, Echoes—mon Dieu!—the Ragman's bray: "Mar—chand d'ha—bits! Chif—fons!"

Foul, hunched, a plague to dainty sight, He limps infect by park and quai, Voicing (for those that hear aright) His hunger-world, the dark Marais. Sexton of all we waste and fray, He bags at last pour tout de bon Our trappings rare, our braveries gay, "Mar—chand d'ha—bits! Chif—fons!"

Their lot is ours! A grislier wight, The Ragman Time, takes day by day Our beauty's bloom, our manly might, Our joie de vivre, our gods of clay; Till torn and worn and soiled and gray Hot life rejects us—nom de nom!— Rags! and our only requiem lay, "Mar—chand d'ha—bits! Chif—fons!"



ENVOY Princes take heed!—for where are they, Valois, Navarre and Orleans?... Death drones the answer, far away, "Mar—chand d'ha—bits! Chif—fons!"

William Samuel Johnson [1859-



THE COURT HISTORIAN Lower Empire. Circa A. D. 700

The Monk Arnulphus uncorked his ink That shone with a blood-red light Just now as the sun began to sink; His vellum was pumiced a silvery white; "The Basileus"—for so he began— "Is a royal sagacious Mars of a man, Than the very lion bolder; He has married the stately widow of Thrace—" "Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

His palette gleamed with a burnished green, Bright as a dragon-fly's skin: His gold-leaf shone like the robe of a queen, His azure glowed as a cloud worn thin, Deep as the blue of the king-whale's lair: "The Porphyrogenita Zoe the fair Is about to wed with a Prince much older, Of an unpropitious mien and look—" "Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

The red flowers trellised the parchment page, The birds leaped up on the spray, The yellow fruit swayed and drooped and swung, It was Autumn mixed up with May. (O, but his cheek was shrivelled and shrunk!) "The child of the Basileus," wrote the Monk, "Is golden-haired—tender the Queen's arms fold her. Her step-mother Zoe doth love her so—" "Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

The Kings and Martyrs and Saints and Priests All gathered to guard the text: There was Daniel snug in the lions' den Singing no whit perplexed— Brazen Samson with spear and helm— "The Queen," wrote the Monk, "rules firm this realm, For the King gets older and older. The Norseman Thorkill is brave and fair—" "Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

Walter Thornbury [1828-1876]



MISS LOU

When thin-strewn memory I look through, I see most clearly poor Miss Loo, Her tabby cat, her cage of birds, Her nose, her hair—her muffled words, And how she would open her green eyes, As if in some immense surprise, Whenever as we sat at tea, She made some small remark to me.

'Tis always drowsy summer when From out the past she comes again; The westering sunshine in a pool Floats in her parlor still and cool; While the slim bird its lean wires shakes, As into piercing song it breaks; Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar; And I am sitting, dull and shy, And she with gaze of vacancy,

And large hands folded on the tray, Musing the afternoon away; Her satin bosom heaving slow With sighs that softly ebb and flow, And her plain face in such dismay, It seems unkind to look her way; Until all cheerful back will come Her gentle gleaming spirit home: And one would think that poor Miss Loo Asked nothing else, if she had you.

Walter De la Mare [1873-



THE POET AND THE WOOD-LOUSE

A portly Wood-louse, full of cares, Transacted eminent affairs Along a parapet where pears Unripened fell And vines embellished the sweet airs With muscatel.

Day after day beheld him run His scales a-twinkle in the sun About his business never done; Night's slender span he Spent in the home his wealth had won— A red-brick cranny.

Thus, as his Sense of Right directed, He lived both honored and respected, Cherished his children and protected His duteous wife, And naught of diffidence deflected His useful life.

One mid-day, hastening to his Club, He spied beside a water-tub The owner of each plant and shrub A humble Bard— Who turned upon the conscious grub A mild regard.

"Eh?" quoth the Wood-louse, "Can it be A Higher Power looks down to see My praiseworthy activity And notes me plying My Daily Task?—Nor strange, dear me, But gratifying!"

To whom the Bard: I still divest My orchard of the Insect Pest, That you are such is manifest, Prepare to die.— And yet, how sweetly does your crest Reflect the sky!

"Go then forgiven, (for what ails Your naughty life this fact avails Tu pardon) mirror in your scales Celestial blue, Till the sun sets and the light fails The skies and you."

.......

May all we proud and bustling parties Whose lot in forum, street and mart is Stand in conspectu Deitatis And save our face, Reflecting where our scaly heart is Some skyey grace.

Helen Parry Eden [18



STUDENTS

John Brown and Jeanne at Fontainebleau— 'Twas Toussaint, just a year ago; Crimson and copper was the glow Of all the woods at Fontainebleau. They peered into that ancient well, And watched the slow torch as it fell. John gave the keeper two whole sous, And Jeanne that smile with which she woos John Brown to folly. So they lose The Paris train. But never mind!— All-Saints are rustling in the wind, And there's an inn, a crackling fire— It's deux-cinquante, but Jeanne's desire); There's dinner, candles, country wine, Jeanne's lips—philosophy divine! There was a bosquet at Saint Cloud Wherein John's picture of her grew To be a Salon masterpiece— Till the rain fell that would not cease. Through one long alley how they raced!— 'Twas gold and brown, and all a waste Of matted leaves, moss-interlaced. Shades of mad queens and hunter-kings And thorn-sharp feet of dryad-things Were company to their wanderings; Then rain and darkness on them drew. The rich folks' motors honked and flew. They hailed an old cab, heaven for two; The bright Champs-Elysees at last— Though the cab crawled it sped too fast.

Paris, upspringing white and gold: Flamboyant arch and high-enscrolled War-sculpture, big, Napoleonic— Fierce chargers, angels histrionic; The royal sweep of gardened spaces, The pomp and whirl of columned Places; The Rive Gauche, age-old, gay and gray; The impasse and the loved cafe; The tempting tidy little shops; The convent walls, the glimpsed tree-tops; Book-stalls, old men like dwarfs in plays; Talk, work, and Latin Quarter ways.

May—Robinson's, the chestnut trees— Were ever crowds as gay as these? The quick pale waiters on a run, The round green tables, one by one, Hidden away in amorous bowers— Lilac, laburnum's golden showers. Kiss, clink of glasses, laughter heard, And nightingales quite undeterred. And then that last extravagance— O Jeanne, a single amber glance Will pay him!—"Let's play millionaire For just two hours—on princely fare, At some hotel where lovers dine A deux and pledge across the wine." They find a damask breakfast-room, Where stiff silk roses range their bloom. The garcon has a splendid way Of bearing in grand dejeuner. Then to be left alone, alone, High up above Rue Castiglione; Curtained away from all the rude Rumors, in silken solitude; And, John, her head upon your knees— Time waits for moments such as these.

Florence Wilkinson [18



"ONE, TWO, THREE!"

It was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy that was half-past three; And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go running and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree; And the game that they played I'll tell you, Just as it was told to me.

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, Though you'd never have known it to be— With an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy with a twisted knee.