A MAN'S REPENTANCE (Intended for recitation at club dinners.)

To-night when I came from the club at eleven, Under the gaslight I saw a face— A woman's face! and I swear to heaven It looked like the ghastly ghost of—Grace!

And Grace? why, Grace was fair; and I tarried, And loved her a season as we men do. And then—but pshaw! why, of course, she is married, Has a husband, and doubtless a babe or two.

She was perfectly calm on the day we parted; She spared me a scene, to my great surprise. "She wasn't the kind to be broken-hearted," I remember she said, with a spark in her eyes.

I was tempted, I know, by her proud defiance, To make good my promise there and then. But the world would have called it a mesalliance! I dreaded the comments and sneers of men.

So I left her to grieve for a faithless lover, And to hide her heart from the cold world's sight As women do hide them, the wide earth over; My God! was it Grace that I saw to-night?

I thought of her married, and often with pity, A poor man's wife in some dull place. And now to know she is here in the city, Under the gaslight, and with that face!

Yet I knew it at once, in spite of the daubing Of paint and powder, and she knew me; She drew a quick breath that was almost sobbing And shrank in the shade so I should not see.

There was hell in her eyes! She was worn and jaded Her soul is at war with the life she has led. As I looked on that face so strangely faded I wonder God did not strike me dead.

While I have been happy and gay and jolly, Received by the very best people in town, That girl whom I led in the way to folly, Has gone on recklessly down and down.

* * * * *

Two o'clock, and no sleep has found me; That face I saw in the street-lamp's light Peers everywhere out from the shadows around me— I know how a murderer feels to-night.



ARISTARCHUS (THE NAME OF THE MOUNTAIN IN THE MOON)

It was long and long ago our love began; It is something all unmeasured by time's span: In an era and a spot, by the Modern World forgot, We were lovers, ere God named us, Maid and Man.

Like the memory of music made by streams, All the beauty of that other love life seems; But I always thought it so, and at last I know, I know, We were lovers in the Land of Silver Dreams.

When the moon was at the full, I found the place; Out and out, across the seas of shining space, On a quest that could not fail, I unfurled my memory's sail And cast anchor in the Bay of Love's First Grace.

At the foot of Aristarchus lies this bay, (Oh! the wonder of that mountain far away!) And the Land of Silver Dreams all about it shines and gleams, Where we loved before God fashioned night or day.

We were souls, in eerie bodies made of light; We were winged, and we could speed from height to height; And we built a nest called Hope, on the sheer Moon Mountain Slope, Where we sat, and watched new worlds wheel into sight.

And we saw this little planet known as Earth, When the mighty Mother Chaos gave it birth; But in love's conceit we thought all those worlds from space were brought, For no greater aim or purpose than our mirth.

And we laughed in love's abandon, and we sang, Till the echoing peals of Aristarchus rang, As hot hissing comets came, and white suns burst into flame, And a myriad worlds from out the darkness sprang.

I can show you, when the Moon is at its best, Aristarchus, and the spot we made our nest, Oh! I always wondered why, when the Moon was in the sky, I was stirred with such strange longing, and unrest.

And I knew the subtle beauty and the force Of our love was never bounded by Earth's course. So with Memory's sail unfurled, I went cruising past this world, And I followed till I traced it to its source.



DELL AND I

In a mansion grand, just over the way Lives bonny, beautiful Dell; You may have heard of this lady gay, For she is a famous belle. I live in a low cot opposite— You never have heard of me; For when the lady moon shines bright, Who would a pale star see? But ah, well! ah, well! I am happier far than Dell, As strange as that may be.

Dell has robes of the richest kind— Pinks and purples and blues; And she worries her maid and frets her mind To know which one to choose. Which shall it be now, silk or lace? In which will I be most fair? She stands by the mirror with anxious face, And her maid looks on in despair. Ah, well! ah, well! I am not worried, you see, like Dell, For I have but one to wear.

Dell has lovers of every grade, Of every age and style; Suitors flutter about the maid, And bask in her word and smile. She keeps them all, with a coquette's art, As suits her mood or mirth, And vainly wonders if in one heart Of all true love has birth. Ah, well! ah, well! I never question myself like Dell, For I know a true heart's worth.

Pleasure to Dell seems stale and old, Often she sits and sighs; Life to me is a tale untold, Each day is a glad surprise. Dell will marry, of course, some day, After her belleship is run; She will cavil the matter in worldly way And wed Dame Fortune's son But, ah, well! sweet to tell, I shall not dally and choose like Dell, For I love and am loved by—one.



ABOUT MAY

One night Nurse Sleep held out her hand To tired little May. "Come, go with me to Wonderland," She said, "I know the way. Just rock-a-by—hum-m-m, And lo! we come To the place where the dream-girls play."

But naughty May, she wriggled away From Sleep's soft arms, and said: "I must stay awake till I eat my cake, And then I will go to bed; With a by-lo, away I will go." But the good nurse shook her head.

She shook her head and away she sped, While May sat munching her crumb. But after the cake there came an ache, Though May cried: "Come, Sleep, come, And it's oh! my! let us by-lo-by"— All save the echoes were dumb.

She ran after Sleep toward Wonderland, Ran till the morning light; And just as she caught her and grasped her hand, A nightmare gave her a fright. And it's by-lo, I hope she'll know Better another night.



VANITY FAIR

In Vanity Fair, as we bow and smile, As we talk of the opera after the weather, As we chat of fashion and fad and style, We know we are playing a part together. You know that the mirth she wears, she borrows; She knows you laugh but to hide your sorrows; We know that under the silks and laces, And back of beautiful, beaming faces, Lie secret trouble and grim despair, In Vanity Fair.

In Vanity Fair, on dress parade, Our colours look bright and our swords are gleaming; But many a uniform's worn and frayed, And most of the weapons, despite their seeming, Are dull and blunted and badly battered, And close inspection will show how tattered And stained are the banners that float above us. Our comrades hate, while they swear to love us; And robed like Pleasure walks gaunt-eyed Care, In Vanity Fair.

In Vanity Fair, as we strive for place, As we rush and jostle and crowd and hurry, We know the goal is not worth the race— We know the prize is not worth the worry; That all our gain means loss for another; That in fighting for self we wound each other; That the crown of success weighs hard and presses The brow of the victor with thorns—not caresses; That honours are empty and worthless to wear, In Vanity Fair.

But in Vanity Fair, as we pass along, We meet strong hearts that are worth the knowing 'Mong poor paste jewels that deck the throng, We see a solitaire sometimes glowing. We find grand souls under robes of fashion, 'Neath light demeanours hide strength and passion; And fair fine honour and godlike resistance In halls of pleasure may have existence; And we find pure altars and shrines of prayer In Vanity Fair.



THE GIDDY GIRL

[This recitation is intended to be given with an accompaniment of waltz music, introducing dance-steps at the refrain "With one, two, three," etc.]

A giddy young maiden with nimble feet, Heigh-ho! alack and alas! Declared she would far rather dance than eat, And the truth of it came to pass. For she danced all day and she danced all night; She danced till the green earth faded white; She danced ten partners out of breath; She danced the eleventh one quite to death; And still she redowaed up and down— The giddiest girl in town. With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three—kick; Chassee back, chassee back, whirl around quick. The name of this damsel ended with E— Heigh-ho; alack and a-day! And she was as fair as a maiden need be, Till she danced her beauty away. She danced her big toes out of joint; She danced her other toes all to a point; She danced out slipper and boot and shoe; She danced till the bones of her feet came through. And still she redowaed, waltzed, and whirled— The giddiest girl in the world. With one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three—kick; Chassee back, chassee back, whirl around quick.

Now the end of my story is sad to relate— Heigh-ho! and away we go! For this beautiful maiden's final fate Is shrouded in gloom and woe. She danced herself into a patent top; She whirled and whirled till she could not stop; She danced and bounded and sprang so far, That she stuck at last on a pointed star; And there she must dance till the Judgment Day, And after it, too, for she danced away Her soul, you see, so she has no place anywhere out of space, With her one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three—kick; Chassee back, chassee back, whirl about quick.



A GIRL'S AUTUMN REVERIE

We plucked a red rose, you and I, All in the summer weather; Sweet its perfume and rare its bloom, Enjoyed by us together. The rose is dead, the summer fled, And bleak winds are complaining; We dwell apart, but in each heart We find the thorn remaining.

We sipped a sweet wine, you and I, All in the summer weather. The beaded draught we lightly quaffed, And filled the glass together. Together we watched its rosy glow, And saw its bubbles glitter; Apart, alone we only know The lees are very bitter.

We walked in sunshine, you and I, All in the summer weather: The very night seemed noonday bright, When we two were together. I wonder why with our good-bye O'er hill and vale and meadow There fell such shade, our paths seemed laid For evermore in shadow.

We dreamed a sweet dream, you and I, All in the summer weather, Where rose and wine and warm sunshine Were mingled in together. We dreamed that June was with us yet, We woke to find December. We dreamed that we two could forget, We woke but to remember.



HIS YOUTH

"Dying? I am not dying? Are you mad? You think I need to ask for heavenly grace? I think you are a fiend, who would be glad To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.

"But, man, you lie! for I am strong—in truth Stronger than I have been in years; and soon I shall feel young again as in my youth, My glorious youth—life's one great priceless boon.

"O youth, youth, youth! O God! that golden time, When proud and glad I laughed the hours away. Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime) I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.

"But I'm not old! I grew—just ill, somehow; Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight. It was but sickness. I am better now, Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.

"And I could weep warm floods of happy tears To think my strength is coming back at last, For I have dreamed of such an hour for years, As I lay thinking of my glorious past.

"You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth. How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain? How dare you say I have outlived my youth?

"'In heaven I may regain it'? Oh, be still! I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave. Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill— O youth, youth, youth! it is my youth I crave.

"There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear. I am not sure of even rest or sleep; Perhaps we lie and think as I have here.

"Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot, And hear the young above us laugh in glee. How dare you say I'm dying! I am not. I would curse God if such a thing could be.

"Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath— Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?" A cry—a fall—the silence known as death Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?



UNDER THE SHEET

What a terrible night! Does the Night, I wonder— The Night, with her black veil down to her feet Like an ordained nun, know what lies under That awful, motionless, snow-white sheet? The winds seem crazed, and, wildly howling, Over the sad earth blindly go. Do they and the dark clouds over them scowling, Do they dream or know?

Why, here in the room, not a week or over— Tho' it must be a week, not more than one— (I cannot recken of late or discover When one day is ended or one begun), But here in this room we were laughing lightly, And glad was the measure our two hearts beat; And the royal face that was smiling so brightly Lies under that sheet.

I know not why—it is strange and fearful, But I am afraid of her, lying there; She who was always so gay and cheerful, Lying so still with that stony stare: She who was so like some grand sultana, Fond of colour and glow and heat, To lie there clothed in that awful manner In a stark white sheet.

She who was made out of summer blisses, Tropical, beautiful, gracious, fair, To lie and stare at my fondest kisses— God! no wonder it whitens my hair Shriek, O wind! for the world is lonely; Trail cloud-veil to the nun Night's feet! For all that I prize in life is only A shape and a sheet.



A PIN

Oh! I know a certain woman who is reckoned with the good, But she fills me with more terror than a raging lion could. The little chills run up and down my spine whene'er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature and she's very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin. And she pricks you, and she sticks you, in a way that can't be said— When you seek for what has hurt you, why, you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain— If anybody asks you why, you really can't explain. A pin is such a tiny thing—of that there is no doubt— Yet when it's sticking in your flesh, you're wretched till it's out!

She is wonderfully observing. When she meets a pretty girl She is always sure to tell her if her "bang" is out of curl. And she is so sympathetic; to her friend who's much admired, She is often heard remarking: "Dear, you look so worn and tired!"

And she is a careful critic; for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman's natural pride, And she said: "Oh, how becoming!" and then softly added, "It Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit."

Then she said: "If you had heard me yestereve, I'm sure, my friend, You would say I am a champion who knows how to defend." And she left me with a feeling—most unpleasant, I aver— That the whole world would despise me if it hadn't been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day; And the hat that was imported (and that cost me half a sonnet) With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and shining for a thrust; Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust. Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin.



THE COMING MAN

Oh! not for the great departed, Who formed our country's laws, And not for the bravest-hearted, Who died in freedom's cause, And not for some living hero To whom all bend the knee, My muse would raise her song of praise— But for the man to be.

For out of the strife which woman Is passing through to-day, A man that is more than human Shall yet be born, I say. A man in whose pure spirit No dross of self will lurk; A man who is strong to cope with wrong, A man who is proud to work.

A man with hope undaunted, A man with godlike power, Shall come when he most is wanted, Shall come at the needed hour. He shall silence the din and clamour Of clan disputing with clan, And toil's long fight with purse-proud might Shall triumph through this man.

I know he is coming, coming, To help, to guide, to save. Though I hear no martial drumming, And see no flags that wave. But the great soul travail of woman, And the bold free thought unfurled, Are heralds that say he is on the way— The coming man of the world.

Mourn not for vanished ages, With their great heroic men, Who dwell in history's pages And live in the poet's pen. For the grandest times are before us, And the world is yet to see The noblest worth of this old earth In the men that are to be.

THE END