Chapter I: ROSE betimes, and donned a suit

Of clothes, whose fit immaculate
Was not a question for dispute,
Whose cut was far above debate.
I breakfasted, or rather tried,
But strange my appetite behaving,
A., B. and S. alone supplied
My feeble craving.

I fidgeted about the place,
I smoothed my hat some twenty times,
I almost cursed the clock’s slow pace
And listened for the neighb’ring chimes—
I stretched my gloves—they were a pair
Of lemon kids, extremely “fetching”;
And so I used peculiar care
About the stretching.

’Twas past eleven when my friend
Arrived, and took me ’neath his wing,
For he had promised to attend
Upon me kindly, and “to bring
Me smiling to the scratch,” as he
Was pleased to term it, being merry,
’Twas quite another thing with me;
’Twas diff’rent, very.

We drove to Church, and there I found
Myself the object of each gaze;
I hardly dared to look around,
I felt completely in a maze—
We had to wait, I dropped my hat,
Then split a glove in very flurry,
Grew hot, and wished devoutly that
The rest would hurry.

When all was o’er, we had to face
A grinning crowd’s rude gaping stare,
I strove to don unconscious grace,
And look as if I didn’t care—
We braved it out, got home, and then
There came a plethora of kissin’:
Of course I took good care the men
Did not join this in.

We next were victims of a meal,
A melancholy sad pretence,
And I thereat was made to feel
How hard it is to utter sense:
The carriage came at last, and we
For not a single moment tarried,
And driving off, it dawned on me
That I was married.
_Somerville Gibney._

KIRTLE RED

A DAMSEL fair, on a summer’s day—
—Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer!
Sat under a tree in a kirtle gray,
Singing, “Somebody’s late at tryst to-day;
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Or the leaves may fall in summer!”

Answered a little bird overhead—
As birds will do in summer;
“Some body _has_ kept tryst,” it said,
“With somebody else in a kirtle red,
And they are going to be marrièd.”
Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer!

“With all my heart, little bird,” said she;
Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer!
“He’s welcome to kirtle red for me;
Somebody’s fast, while somebody’s free!
There’s nothing, no, nothing, like libertie!”
—Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer!
_W. H. Bellamy._

A BAGATELLE

A BAGATELLE! Ah, Mistress Prue,
So gaily laughing all life through,
You call it that, the flower you fling
Lightly aside, the song you sing,
The fan, the glove no longer new.

But to your careless eyes of blue
A bow, a heart that’s fond and true,
Is, like your glove, that worthless thing—
A bagatelle.

While I who prize your glove, your shoe,
The rose that o’er your lips you drew,
Hold worthless spring’s fresh blossoming,
Hold worthless life’s whole offering,
Because my love is but to you
A bagatelle.
_James G. Burnett._

A LOVE TEST

SWEET, do you ask me if you love or no?
Soon will your answers to my questions show:
If in your cheeks hot blushes come and go,
Like rose-leaves shaken on new-fallen snow;
If tender sorrows in your heart arise,
And sudden teardrops tremble in your eyes;
If from my presence you would sigh to part,
Believe me, darling, I have touched your heart.

If when I speak your blue-veined eyelids sink,
And veil the thoughts you scarcely dare to think:
If when I greet you, hardly you reply,
And when we part, but breathe a faint “Good-bye!”
If your sweet face to mine you cannot raise,
Yet fear not so to meet another’s gaze;
If all these things to make you glad combine,
Believe me, darling, that your heart is mine.
_Carl Herlozssohn._

THE MISTAKEN MOTH

’MID the summer flush of roses
Red and white,
Sat a damsel fair, a very
Pretty sight;
Till a butterfly, so smart,
With a flutter and a dart,
Kissed her mouth and made her start
In a fright.

“Ah, forgive me!” begged the insect,
“If you please;
I assure you that I didn’t
Mean to tease.
I but took your rosebud lip
For the rose wherein I dip,
All its honey sweet to sip
At mine ease.”

Said the beauty, to the moth,
“You may try
To excuse your forward conduct,
Sir, but I
Wish it clearly understood
That such roses are too good
To be kissed by every rude
Butterfly!”
_Translated from Wegener._

MY PRETTY NEIGHBOR

IF you’ve nothing, dear, to tell me,
Why, each morning passing by,
With your sudden smiles compel me,
To adore you, then repel me,
Pretty little neighbor, why?
Why if you have naught to tell me,
Do you so my patience try?

If you’ve nothing sweet to teach me,
Tell me why you press my hand?
I’ll attend if you’ll impeach me
Of my sins, or even preach me
Sermons hard to understand;
But if you have naught to teach me,
Dear, your meaning I demand!

If you wish me, love, to leave you,
Why forever walk my way?
Then, when gladly I receive you,
Wherefore do I seem to grieve you?
Must I then, in truth, believe you
Wish me, darling, far away?
Do you wish me, love, to leave you?
Pretty little neighbor, say!
_Translated from Wegener._

IF

IF a man could live a thousand years,
When half his life had passed,
He might, by strict economy,
A fortune have amassed.

Then having gained some common-sense,
And knowledge, too, of life,
He could select the woman who
Would make him a true wife.

But as it is, man hasn’t time
To even pay his debts,
And weds to be acquainted with
The woman whom he gets.
_H. C. Dodge._

TO MISTRESS PYRRHA

WHAT perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah,
With smiles for diet,
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha,
On the quiet?
For whom do you bind up your tresses,
As spun-gold yellow,—
Meshes that go with your caresses,
To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious,
And curse you duly,
Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,—
You perfect, truly!
Pyrrha, your love’s a treacherous ocean;
He’ll soon fall in there!
Then shall I gloat on his commotion,
For I have been there!
_Eugene Field._

THE TEA-GOWN

MY lady has a tea-gown
That is wondrous fair to see,—
It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed,
As a tea-gown ought to be;
And I thought she must be jesting
Last night at supper when
She remarked by chance, that it came from France,
And had cost but two pounds ten.

Had she told me fifty shillings,
I might (and wouldn’t you?)
Have referred to that dress in a way folks express
By an eloquent dash or two;
But the guileful little creature
Knew well her tactics when
She casually said that that dream in red
Had cost but two pounds ten.

Yet our home is all the brighter
For the dainty, sentient thing,
That floats away where it properly may,
And clings where it ought to cling;
And I count myself the luckiest
Of all us married men
That I have a wife whose joy in life
Is a gown at two pounds ten.

It isn’t the gown compels me
Condone this venial sin;
It’s the pretty face above the lace,
And the gentle heart within.
And with her arms about me
I say, and say again,
“’Twas wondrous cheap,”—and I think a heap
Of that gown at two pounds ten!
_Eugene Field._

A PARAPHRASE

HOW happens it, my cruel miss,
You’re always giving me the mitten?
You seem to have forgotten this:
That you no longer are a kitten!

A woman that has reached the years
Of that which people call discretion
Should put away all childish fears
And see in courtship no transgression.

A mother’s solace may be sweet,
But Hymen’s tenderness is sweeter;
And though all virile love be meet,
You’ll find the poet’s love is metre.
_Eugene Field._

A LEAP-YEAR EPISODE

CAN I forget that winter night
In eighteen eighty-four,
When Nellie, charming little sprite,
Came tapping at the door?
“Good evening, miss,” I blushing said,
For in my heart I knew—
And, knowing, hung my pretty head—
That Nellie came to woo.

She clasped my big red hand, and fell
Adown upon her knees,
And cried: “You know I love you well,
So be my husband, please!”
And then she swore she’d ever be
A tender wife and true—
Ah, what delight it was to me
That Nellie came to woo!

She’d lace my shoes and darn my hose
And mend my shirts, she said;
And grease my comely Roman nose
Each night on going to bed;
She’d build the fires and fetch the coal,
And split the kindling, too—
Love’s perjuries o’erwhelmed her soul
When Nellie came to woo.

And as I blushing, gave no check
To her advances rash,
She twined her arms about my neck,
And toyed with my moustache;
And then she pleaded for a kiss,
While I—what could I do
But coyly yield me to that bliss
When Nellie came to woo?

I am engaged, and proudly wear
A gorgeous diamond ring,
And I shall wed my lover fair
Some time in gentle spring.
I face my doom without a sigh—
And so, forthsooth, would you,
If you but loved as fond as I
The Nellie who came to woo.
_Eugene Field._

BALLADE OF LADIES’ NAMES

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

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

Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia—
These I reckon the essence of prose!—
Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia,
Portia’s masterful Roman nose,

Maud’s magnificence, Totty’s toes,
Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea,
Nell’s impertinence, Pamela’s woes!
Anna’s the name of names for me.

ENVOY

Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows,
Sylvia prattles of Arcadee,
Sybil mystifies, Connie crows,
Anna’s the name of names for me!
_W. E. Henley._

BALLADE OF JUNE

LILACS glow, and jasmines climb,
Larks are loud the livelong day.
O the golden summer-prime!
June takes up the sceptre of May,
And the land beneath her sway
Glows, a dream of flowerful closes,
And the very wind’s at play
With Sir Love among the roses.

Lights and shadows in the lime
Meet in exquisite disarray.
Hark! the rich recurrent rhyme
Of the blackbird’s roundelay!
Where he carols, frank and gay,
Fancy no more glooms or proses;
Joyously she flits away
With Sir Love among the roses.

O the cool sea’s slumbrous chime!
O the links that beach the bay,
Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme,
Where the brown bees murmur and stray!
Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay!
Many a maiden, binding posies,
Finds herself at Yea-and-Nay
With Sir Love among the roses.

ENVOY

Boys and girls, be wise, I pray!
Do as dear Queen June proposes,
For she bids you troop and stay
With Sir Love among the roses.
_W. E. Henley._

BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER

MOUNTAINS that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Grass that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet’s ferneries;
A green sky’s minor thirds—
To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass the tinkle,
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow, at will
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon’s dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds—
To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one’s naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds—
To live, I think of these!

ENVOY

Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words—
To live, I think of these!
_W. E. Henley._

A ROSE

’TWAS a Jacqueminot rose
That she gave me at parting;
Sweetest flower that blows.
’Twas a Jacqueminot rose.
In the love garden close,
With the swift blushes starting,
’Twas a Jacqueminot rose
That she gave me at parting.

If she kissed it, who knows—
Since I will not discover,
And love is that close,
If she kissed it, who knows?
Or if not the red rose
Perhaps then the lover!
If she kissed it, who knows,
Since I will not discover.

Yet at least with the rose
Went a kiss that I’m wearing!
More I will not disclose,
Yet at least with the rose
Went whose kiss no one knows,—
Since I’m only declaring,
“Yet at least with the rose
Went a kiss that I’m wearing.”
_Arlo Bates._

TO MINNIE

(_With a Hand Glass_)

A PICTURE-FRAME for you to fill,
A paltry setting for your face,
A thing that has no worth until
You lend it something of your grace,

I send (unhappy I that sing
Laid by awhile upon the shelf)
Because I would not send a thing
Less charming than you are yourself.

And happier than I, alas!
(Dumb thing, I envy its delight)
’Twill wish you well, the looking-glass,
And look you in the face to-night.
_Robert Louis Stevenson._

AN AMERICAN GIRL

SHE’S had a Vassar education,
And points with pride to her degrees;
She’s studied household decoration:
She knows a dado from a frieze,
And tells Corots from Boldonis;
A Jacquemart etching, or a Haden,
A Whistler, too, perchance might please
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

She does not care for meditation;
Within her bonnet are no bees;
She has a gentle animation,
She joins in singing simple glees.
She tries no trills, no rivalries
With Lucca (now Baronin Raden),
With Nilsson or with Gerster; she’s
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

I’m blessed above the whole creation,
Far, far, above all other he’s;
I ask you for congratulation
On this the best of jubilees:
I go with her across the seas
Unto what Poe would call an Aiden,—
I hope no servant’s there to tease
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

ENVOY

Princes, to you the western breeze
Bears many a ship and heavy laden,
What is the best we send in these?
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.
_Brander Matthews._

LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES

ALONE I sit at eventide:
The twilight glory pales,
And o’er the meadows far and wide
Chant pensive bobolinks.
(One might say nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old “manse o’er the lea”
Flies slow the cawing crow.
(In England ’twere a rook!)

The last faint golden beams of day
Still glow on cottage panes,
And on their lingering homeward way
Walk weary laboring men.
(Oh, that we had swains!)

From farm-yards, down fair rural glades
Come sounds of tinkling bells,
And songs of merry brown milkmaids,
Sweeter than oriole’s.
(Yes, thank you—Philomel’s!)

I could sit here till morning came,
All through the night hours dark,
Until I saw the sun’s bright flame
And heard the chickadee.
(Alas! we have no lark!)

We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,
No swains, no nightingales,
No singing milkmaids (save in books):
The poet does his best—
It is the rhyme that fails!
_Nathan Haskell Dole._

CAELI

IF stars were really watching eyes
Of angel armies in the skies,
I should forget all watchers there,
And only for your glances care.

And if your eyes were really stars,
With leagues that none can mete for bars
To keep me from their longed-for day,
I could not feel more far away.
_Francis William Bourdillon._

LADY MINE

LADY mine, most fair thou art
With youth’s gold and white and red;
’Tis a pity that thy heart
Is so much harder than thy head.

This has stayed my kisses oft,
This from all thy charms debarr’d,
That thy head is strangely soft,
While thy heart is strangely hard.

Nothing had kept us apart—
I had loved thee, I had wed—
Hadst thou had a softer heart
Or a harder head.

But I think I’ll bear Love’s smart
Till the wound has healed and fled,
Or thy head is like thy heart,
Or thy heart is like thy head.
_Herbert Edwin Clarke._

THE RIPEST PEACH[A]

THE ripest peach is highest on the tree—
And so her love, beyond the reach of me,
Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow
Her heart down to me where I worship now!

She looms aloft where every eye may see
The ripest peach is highest on the tree.
Such fruitage as her love I know, alas!
I may not reach here from the orchard grass.

I drink the sunshine showered past her lips
As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips.
The ripest peach is highest on the tree,
And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly.

Why—why do I not turn away in wrath
And pluck some heart here hanging in my path?—
Love’s lower boughs bend with them—but, ah me!
The ripest peach is highest on the tree.
_James Whitcomb Riley._

FOOTNOTE:

[A] From “Old-Fashioned Roses,” copyright 1906. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company.

“I JOURNEYED SOUTH TO MEET THE SPRING”