The boy would bend his face down On his one little sound right knee, And he'd guess where she was hiding, In guesses One, Two, Three!

"You are in the china-closet!" He would cry, and laugh with glee— It wasn't the china closet, But he still had Two and Three.

"You are up in papa's big bedroom, In the chest with the queer old key!" And she said: "You are warm and warmer; But you're not quite right," said she.

"It can't be the little cupboard Where mamma's things used to be— So it must be the clothes-press, Gran'ma!" And he found her with his Three.

Then she covered her face with her fingers, That were wrinkled and white and wee, And she guessed where the boy was hiding, With a One and a Two and a Three.

And they never had stirred from their places, Right under the maple tree— This old, old, old, old lady And the boy with the lame little knee— This dear, dear, dear old lady, And the boy who was half-past three.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]



THE CHAPERON

I take my chaperon to the play— She thinks she's taking me. And the gilded youth who owns the box, A proud young man is he; But how would his young heart be hurt If he could only know That not for his sweet sake I go Nor yet to see the trifling show; But to see my chaperon flirt.

Her eyes beneath her snowy hair They sparkle young as mine; There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand So delicate and fine. And when my chaperon is seen, They come from everywhere— The dear old boys with silvery hair, With old-time grace and old-time air, To greet their old-time queen.

They bow as my young Midas here Will never learn to bow (The dancing-masters do not teach That gracious reverence now); With voices quavering just a bit, They play their old parts through, They talk of folk who used to woo, Of hearts that broke in 'fifty-two— Now none the worse for it.

And as those aged crickets chirp, I watch my chaperon's face, And see the dear old features take A new and tender grace; And in her happy eyes I see Her youth awakening bright, With all its hope, desire, delight— Ah, me! I wish that I were quite As young—as young as she!

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]



"A PITCHER OF MIGNONETTE"

A pitcher of mignonette In a tenement's highest casement,— Queer sort of flower-pot—yet That pitcher of mignonette Is a garden in heaven set, To the little sick child in the basement— The pitcher of mignonette, In the tenement's highest casement.

Henry Cuyler Bunner [1855-1896]



OLD KING COLE

In Tilbury Town did Old King Cole A wise old age anticipate, Desiring, with his pipe and bowl, No Khan's extravagant estate. No crown annoyed his honest head, No fiddlers three were called or needed; For two disastrous heirs instead Made music more that ever three did.

Bereft of her with whom his life Was harmony without a flaw, He took no other for a wife, Nor sighed for any that he saw; And if he doubted his two sons, And heirs, Alexis and Evander, He might have been as doubtful once Of Robert Burns and Alexander.

Alexis, in his early youth, Began to steal—from old and young. Likewise Evander, and the truth Was like a bad taste on his tongue. Born thieves and liars, their affair Seemed only to be tarred with evil— The most insufferable pair Of scamps that ever cheered the devil.

The world went on, their fame went on, And they went on—from bad to worse; Till, goaded hot with nothing done, And each accoutered with a curse, The friends of Old King Cole, by twos, And fours, and sevens, and elevens, Pronounced unalterable views Of doings that were not of Heaven's.

And having learned again whereby Their baleful zeal had come about, King Cole met many a wrathful eye So kindly that its wrath went out— Or partly out. Say what they would, He seemed the more to court their candor, But never told what kind of good Was in Alexis and Evander.

And Old King Cole, with many a puff That haloed his urbanity, Would smoke till he had smoked enough, And listen most attentively. He beamed as with an inward light That had the Lord's assurance in it; And once a man was there all night, Expecting something every minute.

But whether from too little thought, Or too much fealty to the bowl, A dim reward was all he got For sitting up with Old King Cole. "Though mine," the father mused aloud, "Are not the sons I would have chosen, Shall I, less evilly endowed, By their infirmity be frozen?

"They'll have a bad end, I'll agree, But I was never born to groan; For I can see what I can see, And I'm accordingly alone. With open heart and open door, I love my friends, I like my neighbors; But if I try to tell you more, Your doubts will overmatch my labors.

"This pipe would never make me calm, This bowl my grief would never drown. For grief like mine there is no balm In Gilead, or in Tilbury Town. And if I see what I can see, I know not any way to blind it; Nor more if any way may be For you to grope or fly to find it.

"There may be room for ruin yet, And ashes for a wasted love; Or, like One whom you may forget, I may have meat you know not of. And if I'd rather live than weep Meanwhile, do you find that surprising? Why, bless my soul, the man's asleep! That's good. The sun will soon be rising."

Edwin Arlington Robinson [1869-1935]



THE MASTER MARINER

My grandshire sailed three years from home, And slew unmoved the sounding whale: Here on the windless beach I roam And watch far out the hardy sail.

The lions of the surf that cry Upon this lion-colored shore On reefs of midnight met his eye: He knew their fangs as I their roar.

My grandsire sailed uncharted seas, And toll of all their leagues he took: I scan the shallow bays at ease, And tell their colors in a book.

The anchor-chains his music made And wind in shrouds and running-gear: The thrush at dawn beguiles my glade, And once, 'tis said, I woke to hear.

My grandsire in his ample fist The long harpoon upheld to men: Behold obedient to my wrist A gray gull's-feather for my pen!

Upon my grandsire's leathern cheek Five zones their bitter bronze had set: Some day their hazards I will seek, I promise me at times. Not yet.

I think my grandsire now would turn A mild but speculative eye On me, my pen and its concern, Then gaze again to sea—and sigh.

George Sterling [1869-1926]



A ROSE TO THE LIVING

A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead: In filling love's infinite store, A rose to the living is more,— If graciously given before The hungering spirit is fled,— A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.

Nixon Waterman [1859-



A KISS

Rose kissed me to-day. Will she kiss me to-morrow? Let it be as it may, Rose kissed me to-day But the pleasure gives way To a savor of sorrow;— Rose kissed me to-day,— Will she kiss me to-morrow?

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



BIFTEK AUX CHAMPIGNONS

Mimi, do you remember— Don't get behind your fan— That morning in September On the cliffs of Grand Manan, Where to the shock of Fundy The topmost harebells sway (Campanula rotundi- folia: cf. Gray)?

On the pastures high and level, That overlook the sea, Where I wondered what the devil Those little things could be That Mimi stooped to gather, As she strolled across the down, And held her dress skirt rather— Oh, now, you need n't frown.

For you know the dew was heavy, And your boots, I know, were thin; So a little extra brevi- ty in skirts was, sure, no sin. Besides, who minds a cousin? First, second, even third,— I've kissed 'em by the dozen, And they never once demurred.

"If one's allowed to ask it," Quoth I, " ma belle cousine, What have you in your basket?" (Those baskets white and green The brave Passamaquoddies Weave out of scented grass, And sell to tourist bodies Who through Mt. Desert pass.)

You answered, slightly frowning, "Put down your stupid book— That everlasting Browning!— And come and help me look. Mushroom you spik him English, I call him champignon: I'll teach you to distinguish The right kind from the wrong."

There was no fog on Fundy That blue September day; The west wind, for that one day, Had swept it all away. The lighthouse glasses twinkled, The white gulls screamed and flew, The merry sheep-bells tinkled, The merry breezes blew.

The bayberry aromatic, The papery immortelle, (That give our grandma's attic That sentimental smell, Tied up in little brush-brooms) Were sweet as new-mown hay, While we went hunting mushrooms That blue September day.

Henry Augustin Beers [1847-1926]



EVOLUTION

When you were a Tadpole and I was a Fish, In the Paleozoic time, And side by side on the ebbing tide, We sprawled through the ooze and slime, Or skittered with many a caudal flip Through the depths of the Cambrian fen— My heart was rife with the joy of life, For I loved you even then.

Mindless we lived, mindless we loved, And mindless at last we died; And deep in the rift of a Caradoc drift We slumbered side by side. The world turned on in the lathe of time, The hot sands heaved amain, Till we caught our breath from the womb of death, And crept into life again.

We were Amphibians, scaled and tailed, And drab as a dead man's hand. We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees Or trailed through the mud and sand, Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet, Writing a language dumb, With never a spark in the empty dark To hint at a life to come.

Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved, And happy we died once more. Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold Of a Neocomian shore. The aeons came and the aeons fled, And the sleep that wrapped us fast Was riven away in a newer day, And the night of death was past.

Then light and swift through the jungle trees We swung in our airy flights, Or breathed the balms of the fronded palms In the hush of the moonless nights. And oh, what beautiful years were these When our hearts clung each to each; When life was filled and our senses thrilled In the first faint dawn of speech!

Thus life by life, and love by love, We passed through the cycles strange, And breath by breath, and death by death, We followed the chain of change. Till there came a time in the law of life When over the nursing sod The shadows broke, and the soul awoke In a strange, dim dream of God.

I was thewed like an Aurocks bull And tusked like the great Cave-Bear, And you, my sweet, from head to feet, Were gowned in your glorious hair. Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave, When the night fell o'er the plain, And the moon hung red o'er the river bed, We mumbled the bones of the slain.

I flaked a flint to a cutting edge, And shaped it with brutish craft; I broke a shank from the woodland dank, And fitted it, head to haft. Then I hid me close in the reedy tarn, Where the Mammoth came to drink— Through brawn and bone I drave the stone, And slew him upon the brink.

Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes, Loud answered our kith and kin; From west and east to the crimson feast The clan came trooping in. O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof, We fought and clawed and tore, And cheek by jowl, with many a growl, We talked the marvel o'er.

I carved that fight on a reindeer bone With rude and hairy hand; I pictured his fall on the cavern wall That men might understand. For we lived by blood and the right of might, Ere human laws were drawn, And the Age of Sin did not begin Till our brutal tusks were gone.

And that was a million years ago, In a time that no man knows; Yet here to-night in the mellow light, We sit at Delmonico's. Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs, Your hair is as dark as jet, Your years are few, your life is new, Your soul untried, and yet—

Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay, And the scarp of the Purbeck flags; We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones, And deep in the Coralline crags. Our love is old, and our lives are old, And death shall come amain. Should it come to-day, what man may say We shall not live again?

God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds And furnished them wings to fly; He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn, And I know that it shall not die; Though cities have sprung above the graves Where the crook-boned men made war, And the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves Where the mummied mammoths are.

Then, as we linger at luncheon here, O'er many a dainty dish, Let us drink anew to the time when you Were a Tadpole and I was a Fish.

Langdon Smith [1858-1908]



A REASONABLE AFFLICTION

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies: His spouse is in despair; With frequent cries, and mutual sighs, They both express their care.

"A different cause," says Parson Sly, "The same effect may give: Poor Lubin fears that he may die; His wife, that he may live."

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]



A MORAL IN SEVRES

Upon my mantel-piece they stand, While all its length between them lies; He throws a kiss with graceful hand, She glances back with bashful eyes.

The china Shepherdess is fair, The Shepherd's face denotes a heart Burning with ardor and despair. Alas, they stand so far apart!

And yet, perhaps, if they were moved, And stood together day by day, Their love had not so constant proved, Nor would they still have smiled so gay.

His hand the Shepherd might have kissed The match-box Angel's heart to win; The Shepherdess, his love have missed, And flirted with the Mandarin.

But on my mantel-piece they stand, While all its length between them lies; He throws a kiss with graceful hand, She glances back with bashful eyes.

Mildred Howells [1872-



ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS

At Cato's Head in Russell Street These leaves she sat a-stitching; I fancy she was trim and neat, Blue-eyed and quite bewitching.

Before her on the street below, All powder, ruffs, and laces, There strutted idle London beaux To ogle pretty faces;

While, filling many a Sedan chair With monstrous hoop and feather, In paint and powder London's fair Went trooping past together.

Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap They sauntered slowly past her, Or printer's boy, with gown and cap, For Steele, went trotting faster.

For beau nor wit had she a look; Nor lord nor lady minding, She bent her head above this book, Attentive to her binding.

And one stray thread of golden hair, Caught on her nimble fingers, Was stitched within this volume, where Until to-day it lingers.

Past and forgotten, beaux and fair, Wigs, powder, all outdated; A queer antique, the Sedan chair, Pope, stiff and antiquated.

Yet as I turn these odd, old plays, This single stray lock finding, I'm back in those forgotten days, And watch her at her binding.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]



THE TALENTED MAN Letter From A Lady In London To A Lady At Lausanne

Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know it,— Last week, at the Duchess's ball, I danced with the clever new poet,— You've heard of him,—Tully St. Paul. Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic; I wish you had seen Lady Anne! It really was very romantic, He is such a talented man!

He came up from Brazen Nose College, Just caught, as they call it, this spring; And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge Of every conceivable thing. Of science and logic he chatters, As fine and as fast as he can; Though I am no judge of such matters, I'm sure he's a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful;— Not stories or jests, dear, for you; The jests are exceedingly spiteful, The stories not always quite true. Perhaps to be kind and veracious May do pretty well at Lausanne; But it never would answer,—good gracious! Chez nous—in a talented man.

He sneers,—how my Alice would scold him!— At the bliss of a sigh or a tear; He laughed—only think!—when I told him How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year; I vow I was quite in a passion; I broke all the sticks of my fan; But sentiment's quite out of fashion, It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral, Has told me that Tully is vain, And apt—which is silly—to quarrel, And fond—which is sad—of champagne. I listened, and doubted, dear Alice, For I saw, when my Lady began, It was only the Dowager's malice;— She does hate a talented man!

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love, Is all that these eyes can adore; He's lame,—but Lord Byron was lame, love, And dumpy,—but so is Tom Moore. Then his voice,—such a voice! my sweet creature, It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: But oh! what's a tone or a feature, When once one's a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season, Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate; And truly, to do the fool reason, He has been less horrid of late. But to-day, when we drive in the carriage, I'll tell her to lay down her plan;— If ever I venture on marriage, It must be a talented man!

P.S.—I have found, on reflection, One fault in my friend,—entre nous; Without it, he'd just be perfection;— Poor fellow, he has not a sou! And so, when he comes in September To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan, I've promised mamma to remember He's only a talented man!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]



A LETTER OF ADVICE From Miss Medora Trevilian, At Padua, To Miss Araminta Vavasour, In London

"Enfin, Monsieur, homme aimable; Voila pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer."—Scribe

You tell me you're promised a lover, My own Araminta, next week; Why cannot my fancy discover The hue of his coat, and his cheek? Alas! if he look like another, A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, Taught us both how to sing and to speak, And we loved one another with passion, Before we had been there a week: You gave me a ring for a token; I wear it wherever I go; I gave you a chain,—it is broken? My own Araminta, say "No!"

O think of our favorite cottage, And think of our dear Lalla Rookh! How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, And drank of the stream from the brook; How fondly our loving lips faltered, "What further can grandeur bestow?" My heart is the same;—is yours altered? My own Araminta, say "No!"

Remember the thrilling romances We read on the bank in the glen; Remember the suitors our fancies Would picture for both of us then; They wore the red cross on their shoulder, They had vanquished and pardoned their foe— Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder? My own Araminta, say "No!"

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage, Drove off with your cousin Justine, You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, And whispered "How base she has been!" You said you were sure it would kill you, If ever your husband looked so; And you will not apostatize,—will you? My own Araminta, say "No!"

When I heard I was going abroad, love, I thought I was going to die; We walked arm in arm to the road, love, We looked arm in arm to the sky; And I said, "When a foreign postilion Has hurried me off to the Po, Forget not Medora Trevilian:— My own Araminta, say "No!"

We parted! but sympathy's fetters Reach far over valley and hill; I muse o'er your exquisite letters, And feel that your heart is mine still; And he who would share it with me, love,— The richest of treasures below,— If he's not what Orlando should be, love, My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, If he comes to you riding a cob, If he talks of his baking or brewing, If he puts up his feet on the hob, If he ever drinks port after dinner, If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself "Thompson" or "Skinner," My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he studies the news in the papers While you are preparing the tea, If he talks of the damps or the vapors While moonlight lies soft on the sea, If he's sleepy while you are capricious, If he has not a musical "Oh!" If he does not call Werther delicious,— My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he ever Sets foot in the city Among the stockbrokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity, If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses, If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses,— My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,— My own Araminta, say "No!"

He must walk like a god of old story Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh! from its ivory portal Like music his soft speech must flow!— If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth; But give him a theme to write verse on, And see if he turns out his toe;— If he's only an excellent person, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]



A NICE CORRESPONDENT

"There are plenty of roses" (the patriarch speaks) "Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks; Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare, Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair."

The glow and the glory are plighted To darkness, for evening is come; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. I'm alone, for the others have flitted To dine with a neighbor at Kew: Alone, but I'm not to be pitied— I'm thinking of you!

I wish you were here! Were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color— Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fastened askew! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A Darling as you?

I want you to come and pass sentence On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? I am reading Sir Waverley Scott. That story of Edgar and Lucy, How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.

They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning A Poet whose garland endures;— It was you that first told me of Browning,— That stupid old Browning of yours! His vogue and his verve are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due; But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming A Poet as you!

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, Dear Fred, I believe it, I do! Small marvel that Folly is making Her Idol of you!

Alas for the World, and its dearly Bought triumph,—its fugitive bliss; Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless Miss; But, perhaps, one is blest with "a measure Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My Darling, to you!

Your whim is for frolic and fashion, Your taste is for letters and art;— This rhyme is the commonplace passion That glows in a fond woman's heart: Lay it by in some sacred deposit For relics—we all have a few! Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was written to You.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]



HER LETTER

I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire,— It cost a cool thousand in France; I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue: In short, sir, "the belle of the season" Is wasting an hour upon you.

A dozen engagements I've broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits—on the stairs—for me yet. They say he'll be rich,—when he grows up,— And then he adores me indeed; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?" "And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?" "And aren't they a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well, yes,—if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look supernaturally grand,— If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that,— You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier,— In the bustle and glitter befitting The "finest soiree of the year,"— In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talk,— Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"

Of Harrison's bar, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee.

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest, Of—the something you said at the gate. Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! (Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting,— I'm spooning on Joseph,—heigh-ho! And I'm to be "finished" by travel,— Whatever's the meaning of that. Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night!—here's the end of my paper; Good-night!—if the longitude please,— For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun's climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,—on Poverty Flat

Bret Harte [1830-1902]



A DEAD LETTER A coeur blesse—l'ombre et le silence.—Balzac

I I drew it from its china tomb;— It came out feebly scented With some thin ghost of past perfume That dust and days had lent it.

An old, old letter,—folded still! To read with due composure, I sought the sun-lit window-sill, Above the gray enclosure,

That, glimmering in the sultry haze, Faint-flowered, dimly shaded, Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, Bedizened and brocaded.

A queer old place! You'd surely say Some tea-board garden-maker Had planned it in Dutch William's day To please some florist Quaker,

So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes; and still The lipless dolphin spurted;

Still in his wonted state abode The broken-nosed Apollo; And still the cypress-arbor showed The same umbrageous hollow.

Only,—as fresh young Beauty gleams From coffee-colored laces, So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams The fresher modern traces;

For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Upon the lawn were lying; A magazine, a tumbled shawl, Round which the swifts were flying;

And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A heap of rainbow knitting, Where, blinking in her pleased repose, A Persian cat was sitting.

"A place to love in,—live,—for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, Could find some God to stretch the gray Scant life the Fates have thrown us;

"But now by steam we run our race, With buttoned heart and pocket, Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace,— Just like an empty locket!

"'The time is out of joint.' Who will, May strive to make it better; For me, this warm old window-sill, And this old dusty letter."

II "Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, And Mother's storing Apples,—Prue and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam: But we shall meet before a Week is gone,— ''Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' John!

"Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile— We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile; Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John!

"John, she's so smart,—with every Ribbon new, Flame-colored Sack, and Crimson Padesoy: As proud as proud; and has the Vapors too, Just like My Lady;—calls poor Sam a Boy, And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on Till he's past Thirty... I know better, John!

"My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you; And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone! Look in this corner,—mind you find it, John!

III This was the matter of the note,— A long-forgot deposit, Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat Deep in a fragrant closet,

Piled with a dapper Dresden world,— Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses,— Bonzes with squat legs undercurled, And great jars filled with roses.

Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed! You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message!

A reverent one. Though we to-day Distrust beliefs and powers, The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers....

I need not search too much to find Whose lot it was to send it, That feel upon me yet the kind, Soft hand of her who penned it;

And see, through two-score years of smoke, In by-gone, quaint apparel, Shine from yon time-black Norway oak The face of Patience Caryl,—

The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed; The gray gown, primly flowered; The spotless, stately coif whose crest Like Hector's horse-plume towered;

And still the sweet half-solemn look Where some past thought was clinging, As when one shuts a serious book To hear the thrushes singing.

I kneel to you! Of those you were, Whose kind old hearts grow mellow,— Whose fair old faces grow more fair, As Point and Flanders yellow;

Whom some old store of garnered grief, Their placid temples shading, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf With tender tints of fading.

Peace to your soul! You died unwed— Despite this loving letter. And what of John? The less that's said Of John, I think, the better.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN

The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! They cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, Them any harm; alas! nor could Thy death to them do any good. I'm sure I never wished them ill, Nor do I for all this; nor will: But, if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But O my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain; Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean; their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain, There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin.

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning, I remember well, Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me: nay, and I know What he said then—I'm sure I do. Said he, "Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!" But Sylvio soon had me beguiled: This waxed tame, while he grew wild, And, quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this; and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game: it seemed to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me!

Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it, too, might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nursed; And as it grew, so every day, It waxed more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft, And white, shall I say? than my hand— Nay, any lady's of the land!

It was a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet. With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when't had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring-time of the year It loved only to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed; And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill; And its pure virgin lips to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint And die as calmly as a saint! See how it weeps! the tears do come Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam; so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It, till it doth overflow, with mine, Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to Whither the swans and turtles go; In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure. O, do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble; and withal Let it be weeping too; but there The engraver sure his art may spare; For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone, Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there; Then at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]



ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES

'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purred applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) The slippery verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood She mewed to every watery god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred: Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard,— A Favorite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold.

Thomas Gray [1716-1771]



VERSES ON A CAT

Clubby! thou surely art, I ween, A Puss of most majestic mien, So stately all thy paces! With such a philosophic air Thou seek'st thy professorial chair, And so demure thy face is!

And as thou sit'st, thine eye seems fraught With such intensity of thought That could we read it, knowledge Would seem to breathe in every mew, And learning yet undreamt by you Who dwell in Hall or College.

Oh! when in solemn taciturnity Thy brain seems wandering through eternity, What happiness were mine Could I then catch the thoughts that flow, Thoughts such as ne'er were hatched below, But in a head like thine.

Oh then, throughout the livelong day, With thee I'd sit and purr away In ecstasy sublime; And in thy face, as from a book, I'd drink in science at each look, Nor fear the lapse of time.

Charles Daubeny [1745-1827]



EPITAPH ON A HARE

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' russet peel; And, when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear; But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut-shade He finds his long, last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.

William Cowper [1731-1800]



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH

Ye Nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favorites shed, O share Maria's grief! Her favorite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassined by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung, And though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blessed, Well-taught, he all the sounds expressed Of flageolet or flute.

The honors of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole; His bosom of the hue With which Aurora decks the skies, When piping winds shall soon arise To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house, Dire foe alike of bird and mouse, No cat had leave to dwell; And Bully's cage supported stood, On props of smoothest-shaven wood, Large-built and latticed well.

Well-latticed,—but the grate, alas! Not rough with wire of steel or brass, For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peeled and dried, The swains their baskets make.

Night veiled the pole—all seemed secure— When, led by instinct sharp and sure, Subsistence to provide, A beast forth sallied on the scout, Long-backed, long-tailed, with whiskered snout, And badger-colored hide.

He, entering at the study-door, Its ample area 'gan explore; And something in the wind Conjectured, sniffing round and round, Better than all the books he found, Food, chiefly, for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impressed A dream disturbed poor Bully's rest; In sleep he seemed to view A rat, fast-clinging to the cage, And, screaming at the sad presage, Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent, Right to his mark the monster went— Ah, Muse! forbear to speak Minute the horror that ensued; His teeth were strong, the cage was wood— He left poor Bully's beak.

O had he made that too his prey! That beak, whence issued many a lay Of such mellifluous tone, Might have repaid him well, I wote, For silencing so sweet a throat, Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps,—the Muses mourn;— So, when by Bacchanalians torn, On Thracian Hebrus' side The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, His head alone remained to tell The cruel death he died.

William Cowper [1731-1800]



AN ELEGY ON A LAP-DOG

Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more: Ye Muses! mourn; ye Chambermaids! deplore. Unhappy Shock! Yet more unhappy fair, Doomed to survive thy joy and only care. Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck; No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair, And comb the wavings of his pendent ear. Let cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid! All mortal pleasures in a moment fade: Our surest hope is in an hour destroyed, And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoyed. Methinks I see her frantic with despair, Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair; Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow, And her torn fan gives real signs of woe. Hence, Superstition! that tormenting guest, That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast; No dread events upon this fate attend, Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend. Though certain omens oft forewarn a state, And dying lions show the monarch's fate, Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise? For, when a lap-dog falls, no lover dies. Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears. Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. In man you'll find a more substantial bliss, More grateful toying and a sweeter kiss. He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground! And may his tomb be by this verse renowned: Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid, Who fawned like man, but ne'er like man betrayed.

John Gay [1685-1732]



MY LAST TERRIER

I mourn "Patroclus," whilst I praise Young "Peter" sleek before the fire, A proper dog, whose decent ways Renew the virtues of his sire; "Patroclus" rests in grassy tomb, And "Peter" grows into his room.

For though, when Time or Fates consign The terrier to his latest earth, Vowing no wastrel of the line Shall dim the memory of his worth, I meditate the silkier breeds, Yet still an Amurath succeeds:

Succeeds to bind the heart again To watchful eye and strenuous paw, To tail that gratulates amain Or deprecates offended Law; To bind, and break, when failing eye And palsied paw must say good-bye.

Ah, had the dog's appointed day But tallied with his master's span, Nor one swift decade turned to gray The busy muzzle's black and tan, To reprobate in idle men Their threescore empty years and ten!

Sure, somewhere o'er the Stygian strait "Panurge" and "Bito," "Tramp" and "Mike," In couchant conclave watch the gate, Till comes the last successive tyke, Acknowledged with the countersign: "Your master was a friend of mine."

In dreams I see them spring to greet, With rapture more than tail can tell, Their master of the silent feet Who whistles o'er the asphodel, And through the dim Elysian bounds Leads all his cry of little hounds.

John Halsham [18—



GEIST'S GRAVE

Four years!—and didst thou stay above The ground, which hides thee now, but four? And all that life, and all that love, Were crowded, Geist! into no more?

Only four years those winning ways, Which make me for thy presence yearn, Called us to pet thee or to praise, Dear little friend! at every turn?

That loving heart, that patient soul, Had they indeed no longer span, To run their course, and reach their goal And read their homily to man?

That liquid, melancholy eye, From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs Seemed surging the Virgilian cry, The sense of tears in mortal things—

That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled By spirits gloriously gay, And temper of heroic mould— What, was four years their whole short day?

Yes, only four!—and not the course Of all the centuries yet to come, And not the infinite resource Of Nature, with her countless sum

Of figures, with her fulness vast Of new creation evermore, Can ever quite repeat the past, Or just thy little self restore.

Stern law of every mortal lot! Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, And builds himself I know not what Of second life I know not where.

But thou, when struck thine hour to go, On us, who stood despondent by, A meek last glance of love didst throw, And humbly lay thee down to die.

Yet would we keep thee in our heart— Would fix our favorite on the scene, Nor let thee utterly depart And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verse On lips that rarely form them now; While to each other we rehearse: Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!

We stroke thy broad brown paws again, We bid thee to thy vacant chair, We greet thee by the window-pane, We hear thy scuffle on the stair;

We see the flaps of thy large ears Quick raised to ask which way we go; Crossing the frozen lake, appears Thy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dear, Who mourn thee in thine English home; Thou hast thine absent master's tear, Dropped by the far Australian foam.

Thy memory lasts both here and there, And thou shalt live as long as we. And after that—thou dost not care! In us was all the world to thee.

Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame, Even to a date beyond our own, We strive to carry down thy name By mounded turf and graven stone.

We lay thee, close within our reach, Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, Between the holly and the beech, Where oft we watched thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an ear To travelers on the Portsmouth road;— There choose we thee, O guardian dear, Marked with a stone, thy last abode!

Then some, who through this garden pass, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the grass, And stop before the stone, and say:

People who lived here long ago Did by this stone, it seems, intend To name for future times to know The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.

Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]



"HOLD"

I know, where Hampshire fronts the Wight, A little church, where "after strife" Reposes Guy de Blanquely, Knight, By Alison his wife: I know their features' graven lines In time-stained marble monotone, While crouched before their feet reclines Their little dog of stone!

I look where Blanquely Castle still Frowns o'er the oak wood's summer state, (The maker of a patent pill Has purchased it of late), And then through Fancy's open door I backward turn to days of old, And see Sir Guy—a bachelor Who owns a dog called "Hold"!

I see him take the tourney's chance, And urge his coal-black charger on To an arbitrament by lance For lovely Alison; I mark the onset, see him hurl From broidered saddle to the dirt His rival, that ignoble Earl— Black-hearted Massingbert!

Then Alison, with down-dropped eyes, Where happy tears bedim the blue, Bestows a valuable prize And adds her hand thereto; My lord, his surcoat streaked with sand, Remounts, low muttering curses hot, And with a base-born, hireling band He plans a dastard plot!

.......

'Tis night—Sir Guy has sunk to sleep, The castle keep is hushed and still— See, up the spiral stairway creep, To work his wicked will, Lord Massingbert of odious fame, Soft followed by his cut-throat staff; Ah, "Hold" has justified his name And pinned his lordship's calf!

A growl, an oath, then torches flare; Out rings a sentry's startled shout; The guard are racing for the stair, Half-dressed, Sir Guy runs out; On high his glittering blade he waves, He gives foul Massingbert the point, He carves the hired assassin knaves Joint from plebeian joint!

.......

The Knight is dead—his sword is rust, But in his day I'm certain "Hold" Wore, as his master's badge of trust, A collarette of gold: And still I like to fancy that, Somewhere beyond the Styx's bound, Sir Guy's tall phantom stoops to pat His little phantom hound!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18-



THE BARB OF SATIRE



THE VICAR OF BRAY

In good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous high-churchman was I, And so I got preferment. To teach my flock I never missed: Kings were by God appointed, And lost are those that dare resist Or touch the Lord's anointed. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possessed the crown, And popery grew in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And I had been a Jesuit But for the Revolution.

When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance.

When royal Anne became our queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional conformists base, I blamed their moderation, And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication.

When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, My principles I changed once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured From our new Faith's defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender.

The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear— While they can keep possession: For in my faith and loyalty I nevermore will falter, And George my lawful king shall be— Until the times do alter. And this is law that I'll maintain Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever king shall reign, Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

Unknown



THE LOST LEADER [William Wordsworth]

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud— We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, —He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering,—not through his presence; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



ICHABOD [Daniel Webster]

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore!

Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall!

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night.

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven!

Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow.

But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make.

Of all we loved and honored, naught Save power remains; A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains.

All else is gone; from those great eyes The soul has fled: When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead!

Then, pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]



WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

Guvener B. is a sensible man; He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat; Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.

Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: He's ben on all sides that give places or pelf; But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,— He's ben true to one party,—an' thet is himself;— So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

Gineral C. he goes in fer the war; He don't vally princerple more'n an old cud; Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? So John P. Robinson he Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.

We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint, We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint; But John P. Robinson he Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.

The side of our country must ollers be took, An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country, An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry; An' John P. Robinson he Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.

Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum; An' thet all this big talk of our destinies Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum; But John P. Robinson he Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life That th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats, An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; But John P. Robinson he Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.

Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,— God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough; Fer John P. Robinson he Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



THE DEBATE IN THE SENNIT Sot To A Nursery Rhyme

"Here we stan' on the Constitution, by thunder! It's a fact o' wich ther's bushils o' proofs; Fer how could we trample on 't so, I wonder, Ef't worn't thet it's ollers under our hoofs?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he; "Human rights haint no more Right to come on this floor, No more'n the man in the moon," sez he.

"The North haint no kind o' bisness with nothin', An' you've no idee how much bother it saves; We aint none riled by their frettin' an' frothin', We're used to layin' the string on our slaves," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Mister Foote, "I should like to shoot The holl gang, by the gret horn spoon!" sez he.

"Freedom's Keystone is Slavery, thet ther's no doubt on, It's sutthin' thet's—wha'd'ye call it?—divine,— An' the slaves thet we ollers make the most out on Air them north o' Mason an' Dixon's line," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Fer all thet," sez Mangum, "'T would be better to hang 'em An' so git red on 'em soon," sez he.

"The mass ough' to labor an' we lay on soffies, Thet's the reason I want to spread Freedom's aree; It puts all the cunninest on us in office, An' reelises our Maker's orig'nal idee," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Thet's ez plain," sez Cass, "Ez thet some one's an ass, It's ez clear ez the sun is at noon," sez he.

"Now don't go to say I'm the friend of oppression, But keep all your spare breath fer coolin' your broth, Fer I ollers hev strove (at least thet's my impression) To make cussed free with the rights o' the North," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Yes," sez Davis o' Miss., "The perfection o' bliss Is in skinnin' that same old coon," sez he.

"Slavery's a thing thet depends on complexion, It's God's law thet fetters on black skins don't chafe; Ef brains wuz to settle it (horrid reflection!) Wich of our onnable body'd be safe?" Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Mister Hannegan, Afore he began agin, "Thet exception is quite oppertoon," sez he.

"Gen'nle Cass, Sir, you needn't be twitchin' your collar, Your merit's quite clear by the dut on your knees; At the North we don't make no distinctions o' color: You can all take a lick at our shoes wen you please," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Mister Jarnagin, "They wun't hev to larn agin, They all on 'em know the old toon," sez he.

"The slavery question aint no ways bewilderin', North an' South hev one int'rest, it's plain to a glance, No'thern men, like us patriarchs, don't sell their childrin, But they du sell themselves, ef they git a good chance," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— Sez Atherton here, "This is gittin' severe, I wish I could dive like a loon," sez he.

"It'll break up the Union, this talk about freedom, An' your fact'ry gals (soon ex we split) 'll make head, An' gittin' some Miss chief or other to lead 'em, 'll go to work raisin' permiscoous Ned," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Yes, the North," sez Colquitt, "Ef we Southeners all quit, Would go down like a busted balloon," sez he.

"Jest look wut is doin', wut annyky's brewin' In the beautiful clime o' the olive an' vine, All the wise aristoxy's atumblin' to ruin, An' the sankylot's drorin' an' drinkin' their wine," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Yes," sez Johnson, "in France They're beginnin' to dance Beelzebub's own rigadoon," sez he.

"The South's safe enough, it don't feel a mite skeery, Our slaves in their darkness an' dut air tu blest Not to welcome with proud hallylugers the ery Wen our eagle kicks yourn from the naytional nest," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Oh," sez Westcott o' Florida, "Wut treason is horrider Than our priv'leges tryin' to proon?" sez he.

"It's 'coz they're so happy, thet, wen crazy sarpints Stick their nose in our bizness, we git so darned riled; We think it's our dooty to give pooty sharp hints, Thet the last crumb of Edin on airth sha'n't be spiled," Sez John C. Calhoun, sez he;— "Ah," sez Dixon H. Lewis, "It perfectly true is Thet slavery's airth's grettest boon," sez he.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]



THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS A Song With A Stolen Burden

Off with your hat! along the street His Lordship's carriage rolls; Respect to greatness—when it shines To cheer our darkened souls. Get off the step, you ragged boys! Policeman, where's your staff? This is a sight to check with awe The most irreverent laugh. Chapeau bas! Chapeau bas! Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Stand further back! we'll see him well; Wait till they lift him out: It takes some time; his Lordship's old, And suffers from the gout. Now look! he owns a castled park For every finger thin; He has more sterling pounds a day Than wrinkles in his skin.

The founder of his race was son To a king's cousin, rich; (The mother was an oyster wench— She perished in a ditch). His patriot worth embalmed has been In poets' loud applause: He made twelve thousand pounds a year By aiding France's cause.

The second marquis, of the stole Was groom to the second James; He all but caught that recreant king When flying o'er the Thames. Devotion rare! by Orange Will With a Scotch county paid; He gained one more—in Ireland—when Charles Edward he betrayed.

He lived to see his son grow up A general famed and bold, Who fought his country's fights—and one, For half a million, sold. His son (alas! the house's shame) Frittered the name away: Diced, wenched and drank—at last got shot, Through cheating in his play!

Now, see, where, focused on one head, The race's glories shine: The head gets narrow at the top, But mark the jaw—how fine! Don't call it satyr-like; you'd wound Some scores, whose honest pates The self-same type present, upon The Carabas estates!

Look at his skin—at four-score years How fresh it gleams and fair: He never tasted ill-dressed food, Or breathed in tainted air. The noble blood glows through his veins Still, with a healthful pink; His brow scarce wrinkled!—Brows keep so That have not got to think.

His hand 's ungloved!—it shakes, 'tis true, But mark its tiny size, (High birth's true sign) and shape, as on The lackey's arm it lies. That hand ne'er penned a useful line, Ne'er worked a deed of fame, Save slaying one, whose sister he— Its owner—brought to shame.

They ye got him in—he's gone to vote Your rights and mine away; Perchance our lives, should men be scarce, To fight his cause for pay. We are his slaves! he owns our lands, Our woods, our seas, and skies; He'd have us shot like vicious dogs, Should we in murmuring rise! Chapeau bas! Chapeau bas! Gloire au Marquis de Carabas!

Robert Brough [1828-1860]



A MODEST WIT

A supercilious nabob of the East— Haughty, being great—purse-proud, being rich— A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which—

Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His Honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?"— "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good."

"A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?"

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!"

"My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low— He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?"

Selleck Osborn [1783-1826]



JOLLY JACK

When fierce political debate Throughout the isle was storming, And Rads attacked the throne and state, And Tories the reforming, To calm the furious rage of each, And right the land demented, Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach The way to be contented.

Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, His chair, a three-legged stool; His broken jug was emptied oft, Yet, somehow, always full. His mistress' portrait decked the wall, His mirror had a crack, Yet, gay and glad, though this was all His wealth, lived Jolly Jack.

To give advice to avarice, Teach pride its mean condition, And preach good sense to dull pretence, Was honest Jack's high mission. Our simple statesman found his rule Of moral in the flagon, And held his philosophic school Beneath the "George and Dragon"

When village Solons cursed the Lords, And called the malt-tax sinful, Jack heeded not their angry words, But smiled and drank his skinful. And when men wasted health and life, In search of rank and riches, Jack marched aloof the paltry strife, And wore his threadbare breeches.

"I enter not the Church," he said, "But I'll not seek to rob it;" So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, While others studied Cobbett. His talk it was of feast and fun; His guide the Almanack; From youth to age thus gaily run The life of Jolly Jack.

And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, He humbly thanked his Maker; "I am," said he, "O Father good! Nor Catholic nor Quaker: Give each his creed, let each proclaim His catalogue of curses; I trust in Thee, and not in them, In Thee, and in Thy mercies!

"Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, No hint I see of damning; And think there's faith among the Turks, And hope for e'en the Brahmin. Harmless my mind is, and my mirth, And kindly is my laughter; I cannot see the smiling earth, And think there's hell hereafter."

Jack died; he left no legacy, Save that his story teaches:— Content to peevish poverty; Humility to riches. Ye scornful great, ye envious small, Come fellow in his track; We all were happier, if we all Would copy Jolly Jack.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



THE KING OF BRENTFORD After Beranger

There was a King in Brentford,—of whom no legends tell, But who, without his glory,—could eat and sleep right well. His Polly's cotton nightcap—it was his crown of state, He slept of evenings early,—and rose of mornings late.

All in a fine mud palace,—each day he took four meals, And for a guard of honor,—a dog ran at his heels. Sometimes to view his kingdoms,—rode forth this monarch good, And then a prancing jackass—he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits—with which this King was cursed, Except (and where's the harm on't)—a somewhat lively thirst; But people must pay taxes,—and Kings must have their sport; So out of every gallon—His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him,—with manners soft and bland; With reason good, they named him,—the father of his land. Each year his mighty armies—marched forth in gallant show; Their enemies were targets,—their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor,—no useless conquest made, But by the laws of pleasure,—his peaceful realm he swayed. And in the years he reigned,—through all this country wide, There was no cause for weeping,—save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford,—do still their King deplore, His portrait yet is swinging,—beside an alehouse door. And topers, tender-hearted,—regard his honest phiz, And envy times departed,—that knew a reign like his.

William Makepeace Thackeray [1811-1863]



KAISER & CO

Der Kaiser auf der Vaterland Und Gott on high, all dings gommand; Ve two, ach don'd you understandt? Meinself—und Gott.

He reigns in heafen, und always shall, Und mein own embire don'd vas shmall; Ein noble bair, I dink you call Meinself—und Gott.

Vile some mens sing der power divine, Mein soldiers sing der "Wacht am Rhein," Und drink der healt in Rhenish wein Auf me—und Gott.

Dere's France dot swaggers all aroundt, She's ausgespieldt—she's no aggoundt; To mooch ve dinks she don'd amoundt, Meinself—und Gott.

She vill not dare to fight again, But if she shouldt, I'll show her blain Dot Elsass und (in French) Lorraine Are mein—und Gott's.

Dere's grandma dinks she's nicht shmall beer, Mit Boers und dings she interfere; She'll learn none runs dis hemisphere But me—und Gott.

She dinks, goot frau, some ships she's got, Und soldiers mit der sgarlet goat; Ach! ve could knock dem—pouf! like dot, Meinself—und Gott.

In dimes auf peace, brebared for wars, I bear der helm und sbear auf Mars, Und care nicht for den dousant czars, Meinself—und Gott.

In short, I humor efery whim, Mit aspect dark und visage grim, Gott pulls mit me und I mit Him— Meinself—und Gott.

Alexander Macgregor Rose [1846-1898]



NONGTONGPAW

John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gained in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answered John in heathen Greek; To all he asked, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas, "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal come, Its splendor almost struck him dumb. "I say, whose house is that there here?" "House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John; "This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw,— I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marli's height, And cried, astonished at the sight, "Whose fine estate is that there here?" "State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "His? what, the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw! I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, "What lovely wench is that there here?" "Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur." "What, he again? Upon my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw.

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John. "Je vous n'entends pas."—"What, is he gone? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw, then, from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,— I'd with him breakfast, dine, and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!"

Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]



THE LION AND THE CUB

How fond are men of rule and place, Who court it from the mean and base! These cannot bear an equal nigh, But from superior merit fly. They love the cellar's vulgar joke, And lose their hours in ale and smoke. There o'er some petty club preside; So poor, so paltry, is their pride! Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit, In hopes to be supreme in wit. If these can read, to these I write, To set their worth in truest light.

A Lion-cub of sordid mind, Avoided all the lion kind; Fond of applause, he sought the feasts Of vulgar and ignoble beasts; With asses all his time he spent, Their club's perpetual president. He caught their manners, looks, and airs; An ass in everything but ears! If e'er his Highness meant a joke, They grinned applause before he spoke; But at each word what shouts of praise! "Good gods! how natural he brays!" Elate with flattery and conceit, He seeks his royal sire's retreat; Forward, and fond to show his parts, His Highness brays; the Lion starts. "Puppy! that cursed vociferation Betrays thy life and conversation: Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race, Are trumpets of their own disgrace." "Why so severe?" the Cub replies; "Our senate always held me wise!" "How weak is pride," returns the sire: "All fools are vain when fools admire! But know, what stupid asses prize, Lions and noble beasts despise."

John Gay [1685-1732]



THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS

Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare, who, in a civil way, Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train, Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain; Her care was never to offend, And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies: She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round: Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight: To friendship every burden's light." The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted; relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord: "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend, To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence; a favorite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind." The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; "My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as Hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu! For see, the hounds are just in view."

John Gay [1685-1732]



THE SYCOPHANTIC FOX AND THE GULLIBLE RAVEN

A raven sat upon a tree, And not a word he spoke, for His beak contained a piece of Brie, Or, maybe, it was Roquefort? We'll make it any kind you please— At all events, it was a cheese.

Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb A hungry fox sat smiling; He saw the raven watching him, And spoke in words beguiling: "J'admire," said he, "ton beau plumage," (The which was simply persiflage).

Two things there are, no doubt you know, To which a fox is used,— A rooster that is bound to crow, A crow that's bound to roost, And whichsoever he espies He tells the most unblushing lies.

"Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand You're more than merely natty: I hear you sing to beat the band And Adelina Patti. Pray render with your liquid tongue A bit from 'Gotterdammerung.'"

This subtle speech was aimed to please The crow, and it succeeded: He thought no bird in all the trees Could sing as well as he did. In flattery completely doused, He gave the "Jewel Song" from "Faust."

But gravitation's law, of course, As Isaac Newton showed it, Exerted on the cheese its force, And elsewhere soon bestowed it. In fact, there is no need to tell What happened when to earth it fell.

I blush to add that when the bird Took in the situation, He said one brief, emphatic word, Unfit for publication. The fox was greatly startled, but He only sighed and answered "Tut!"

The moral is: A fox is bound To be a shameless sinner. And also: When the cheese comes round You know it's after dinner. But (what is only known to few) The fox is after dinner, too.

Guy Wetmore Carryl [1873-1904]



THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER Friend Of Humanity

Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order.— Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in't. So have your breeches!

Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, "Knives and Scissors to grind O!"

Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? Did some rich man tyrannically use you? Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? Or the attorney?

Was it the squire for killing of his game? or Covetous parson, for his tithes destraining? Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER Story? God bless you! I have none to tell, sir; Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle

Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honor's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance!— Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

(Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.)

George Canning [1770-1827]



VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES "Tout aux tavernes et aux fiells."

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack? Or fake the broads? or fig a nag? Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack? Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag? Suppose you duff? or nose and lag? Or get the straight, and land your pot? How do you melt the multy swag? Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack; Or moskeneer, or flash the drag; Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack; Pad with a slang, or chuck a fag; Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag; Rattle the tats, or mark the spot; You can not bag a single stag; Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack, And on the square you flash your flag? At penny-a-lining make your whack, Or with the mummers mug and gag? For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag! At any graft, no matter what, Your merry goblins soon stravag: Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

THE MORAL It's up the spout and Charley Wag With wipes and tickers and what not, Until the squeezer nips your scrag, Booze and the blowens cop the lot.

William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]



VILLON'S BALLADE Of Good Counsel, To His Friends Of Evil Life

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You'll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry. All evil folks that love a lie! And where goes gain that greed amasses, By wile, and guile, and thievery? 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With myst'ry and morality; Win gold at gleek,—and that will fly, Where all your gain at passage passes,— And that's? You know as well as I, 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you've no clerkly skill to ply; You'll gain enough, with husbandry, But—sow hempseed and such wild grasses, And where goes all you take thereby?— 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

ENVOY Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpasses, Or ere they're worn, off, off they fly, 'Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]



A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE RICH

To put new shingles on old roofs; To give old women wadded skirts; To treat premonitory coughs With seasonable flannel shirts; To soothe the stings of poverty And keep the jackal from the door,— These are the works that occupy The Little Sister of the Poor.

She carries, everywhere she goes, Kind words and chickens, jams and coals; Poultices for corporeal woes, And sympathy for downcast souls: Her currant jelly, her quinine, The lips of fever move to bless; She makes the humble sick-room shine With unaccustomed tidiness.

A heart of hers the instant twin And vivid counterpart is mine; I also serve my fellow-men, Though in a somewhat different line. The Poor, and their concerns, she has Monopolized, because of which It falls to me to labor as A Little Brother of the Rich.

For their sake at no sacrifice Does my devoted spirit quail; I give their horses exercise; As ballast on their yachts I sail. Upon their tallyhos I ride And brave the chances of a storm; I even use my own inside To keep their wines and victuals warm.

Those whom we strive to benefit Dear to our hearts soon grow to be; I love my Rich, and I admit That they are very good to me. Succor the Poor, my sisters,—I, While heaven shall still vouchsafe me health, Will strive to share and mollify The trials of abounding wealth.

Edward Sandford Martin [1856-



THE WORLD'S WAY

At Haroun's court it chanced, upon a time, An Arab poet made this pleasant rhyme:

"The new moon is a horseshoe, wrought of God, Wherewith the Sultan's stallion shall be shod."

On hearing this, the Sultan smiled, and gave The man a gold-piece. Sing again, O slave!

Above his lute the happy singer bent, And turned another gracious compliment.

And, as before, the smiling Sultan gave The man a sekkah. Sing again, O slave!

Again the verse came, fluent as a rill That wanders, silver-footed, down a hill.

The Sultan, listening, nodded as before, Still gave the gold, and still demanded more.

The nimble fancy that had climbed so high Grew weary with its climbing by and by:

Strange discords rose; the sense went quite amiss; The singer's rhymes refused to meet and kiss:

Invention flagged, the lute had got unstrung, And twice he sang the song already sung.

The Sultan, furious, called a mute, and said, O Musta, straightway whip me off his head!

Poets! not in Arabia alone You get beheaded when your skill is gone.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]



FOR MY OWN MONUMENT

As doctors give physic by way of prevention, Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care; For delays are unsafe, and his pious intention May haply be never fulfilled by his heir.

Then take Mat's word for it, the sculptor is paid; That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye; Yet credit but lightly what more may be said, For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years, His virtues and vices were as other men's are; High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears, In a life parti-colored, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make interest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot, Both fortunes be tried, but to neither would trust; And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned about, He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polished, though mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merit to view; It says that his relics collected lie here, And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Mat may be killed, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea, So Mat may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

Matthew Prior [1664-1721]



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews—sons mine.. ah God, I know not! Well— She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped, but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. —Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church —What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye-find... Ah God, I know not, I!... Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast... Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black— 'T was ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?— The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables... but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me—all of jasper, then! 'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind, alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world— And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? —That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line— Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, —Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?— No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul, Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death—ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone— Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through— And no more lapis to delight the world! Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs —Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers— Old Gandolf—at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



UP AT A VILLA—DOWN IN THE CITY As Distinguished By An Italian Person Of Quality

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square. Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! —I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.

But the city, oh the city—the square with the houses! Why? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry! You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive trees.

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in the conch—fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.

All the year round at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted fore finger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so, Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." Noon strikes,—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! Bang-whang-whang, goes the drum, tootle-k-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still—ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals. Bang-whang-whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]



ALL SAINTS'

In a church which is furnished with mullion and gable, With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin, The penitents' dresses are sealskin and sable, The odor of sanctity's eau-de-cologne.

But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades, Gaze down on this crowd with its paniers and paints, He would say, as he looked at the lords and the ladies, "Oh, where is All Sinners' if this is All Saints'?"

Edmund Yates [1831-1894]



AN ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither: The Rigid Righteous is a fool The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight May hae some pyles o' caff in; Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight For random fits o' daffin. Solomon—Eccles. vii. 16.

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've naught to do but mark and tell Your neebor's fauts and folly:— Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Supplied wi' store o' water, The heaped happer's ebbing still, And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, For glaikit Folly's portals! I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Would here propone defences, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, And shudder at the niffer; But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ? Discount what scant occasion gave That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Your better art o' hidin'.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way;— But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.