Chapter I: Go My Gait

I go my gait, and if my way
Is cheered by song and roundelay,
Or if I bear upon my road,
Like Issachar, a double load,
I sing and bear as best I may.

But lo a rondeau! Can I say,
While halting thus my toll to pay
Before a stile now _a la mode_,
I go my gate?

Ah truly; if for once I stray
Into the treadmill,-'tis in play.
I will not own its narrow code,
It shall not be my cramped abode.
Free of the fields, in open day
I go my gait!

EMILY PFEIFFER.

(TO LOUIS HONORE FRÉCHETTE.)

Laurels for song! And nobler bays,
In old Olympian golden days
Of clamour thro' the clear-eyed morn,
No bowed triumphant head hath borne
Victorious in all Hellas' gaze!

They watched his glowing axles graze
The goal, and rent the heavens with praise;-
Yet the supremer heads have worn
Laurels for song.

So thee, from no palaestra-plays
A conqueror, to the gods we raise,
Whose brows of all our singers born
The sacred fillets chief adorn,-
Who first of all our choice displays
Laurels for song.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

"WITHOUT ONE KISS."

Without one kiss she's gone away,
And stol'n the brightness out of day;
With scornful lips and haughty brow
She's left me melancholy now,
In spite of all that I could say.

And so, to guess as best I may
What angered her, awhile I stay
Beneath this blown acacia bough,
Without one kiss;

Yet all my wildered brain can pay
My questioning, is but to pray
Persuasion may my speech endow,
And Love may never more allow
My injured sweet to sail away
Without one kiss.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

VIS EROTIS.

Love that holdeth firm in fee
Many a lord of many a land,
From thy thraldom few would flee;
Wide the wondrous potency
Of thy heart-enchanting hand.

Since on shining Cyprian sand
Did thy mother, Venus, stand,
Man and maid have worshipped thee,
Love.

They that scorn thy slaves to be,
Oft before thy throne, unmanned,
Grant thy great supremacy;
Hear my prayer, O Monarch, and
Let my lady smile on me,
Love.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

WHEN SIRIUS SHINES.

When Sirius shines, a fulgent fire,
And locusts in a drowsy choir
At noon within the maples drone,
And pines at nightfall make sad moan
Like waves upon the rocks of Tyre,

Then strike the softly sounding lyre,
And let the soaring song rise higher,
Or fall to minor monotone,
When Sirius shines.

But should the chiming voices tire,
And thoughts of past and vain desire
Refill the mind, as doves once flown
Return to cotes aforetime known,
Then let the soul to heaven aspire,
When Sirius shines.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

AT PEEP OF DAWN.

At peep of dawn the daffodil
That slumbers 'neath the grassy hill
Greets smilingly, with lifted head,
The rosy morn's oncoming tread,
The thrush sings matins by the rill.

The swallows from the ruined mill
Go coursing through the air, and fill
The sky with songs till then unsaid
At peep of dawn.

No harbinger of day is still.
With pipe new tuned and merry trill,
The lark uprises from her bed
'Mong grasses wet with dews unshed,
And puts to shame the whip-poor-will
At peep of dawn.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

IN GREENWOOD GLEN.

In greenwood glen, where greedy bees
Drain fragrant flower-cups to the lees,
When summer's shining lances smite
The grain-fields gleaming golden bright,
I hear Æolian melodies.

The music bounds along the breeze
In ever-changing symphonies,
And lulls my soul with calm delight
In Greenwood glen.

Elusively it faints and flees,
Retreats, returns,-but no one sees
The piper; for, as in affright,
He skilfully eludes the sight;
'Tis Pan who hides amid the trees,
In Greenwood glen.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

HER CHINA CUP.

Her china cup is white and thin;
A thousand times her heart has been
Made merry at its scalloped brink;
And in the bottom, painted pink,
A dragon greets her with a grin.

The brim her kisses loves to win;
The handle is a manikin,
Who spies the foes that chip or chink
Her china cup.

Muse, tell me if it be a sin:
I watch her lift it past her chin
Up to the scarlet lips and drink
The Oolong draught, somehow I think
I'd like to be the dragon in
Her china cup.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

BEHIND HER FAN.

Behind her fan of downy fluff,
Sewed on soft saffron satin stuff,
With peacock feathers, purple-eyed,
Caught daintily on either side,
The gay coquette displays a puff:
Two blue eyes peep above the buff:
Two pinky pouting lips ... enough!
That cough means surely come and hide
Behind her fan.

The barque of Hope is trim and tough,
So out I venture on the rough,
Uncertain sea of girlish pride.
A breeze! I tack against the tide,-
Capture a kiss and catch a cuff,-
Behind her fan.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

AN ACROSTICAL VALENTINE.

(A. S. R.)

Fast in your heart, O rondeau rare,
Rich with the wealth of love, I dare,
Alas! to send, but not to sign,
Nestles my name. The fetters fine
Kissed by her lips may break,--beware
Delight is dizzy with despair.
Suppose she fain would answer,-there!
How shall she find this name of mine
Fast in your heart?

Enough if secrecy you swear:
Red lips can't solve the subtile snare
My tricksy muse weaves with her line:
And I am caught, vain Valentine!
N.B.-Say,-should she ask you where?
"_Fast in your heart._"

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

WHEN TWILIGHT COMES.

When twilight comes and nature stills
The hum that haunts the dales and hills,
Dim shadows deepen and combine,
And Heaven with its crystal wine
The cups of thirsty roses fills.

Blithe birds with music-burdened bills
Hush for a space their tender trills,
And seek their homes in tree or vine
When twilight comes.

Soft melody the silence thrills,
Played by the nymphs along the rills;
And where the dew-kist grasses twine,
The toads and crickets tatoo fine
Drums to the fife of whip-poor-wills,
When twilight comes.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

COME, PAN, AND PIPE.

Come, Pan, and pipe upon the reed,
And make the mellow music bleed,
As once it did in days of yore,
Along the brook's leaf-tangled shore,
Through sylvan shade and fragrant mead.

On Hybla honey come and feed,--
To tempt the Fauns in dance to lead
The Dryads on the mossy floor,--
Come, Pan, and pipe!

To-day the ghosts,--Gold, Gain, and Greed,
The world pursues with savage speed:
Forgotten is your magic lore.
Oh, bring it back to us once more!
For simple, rustic song we plead:
Come, Pan, and pipe!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

AN OLD RONDO.

Her scuttle Hatt is wondrous wide,
All furrie, too, on every side,
Soe out she trippeth daintylie,
To let ye Youth full well to see
How fayre ye mayde is for ye Bryde.

A lyttle puffed, may be, bye Pryde,
She yett soe lovelye ys thatt I'd
A Shyllynge gyve to tye, perdie,
Her scuttle Hatt.

Ye Coales unto ye Scuttle slide,
Soe yn her Hatt wolde I, and hide
To steale some Kissestwo or three:
But synce She never asketh me,
Ye scornful Cynick doth deride
Her scuttle Hatt!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

A STREET SKETCH.

Upon the Kerb, a maiden neat--
Her hazel eyes are passing sweet--
There stands and waits in dire distress:
The muddy road is pitiless,
And 'busses thunder down the street!

A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat;
Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet
Peep out, beneath her kilted dress,
Upon the Kerb.

She'll first advance and then retreat,
Half-frightened by a hansom fleet.
She looks around, I must confess,
With marvellous coquettishness!-
Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,
Upon the Kerb!

J. ASHBY STERRY.

DOVER.

On Dover Pier, brisk blew the wind,
The Fates against me were combined
For when I noticed standing there,
Sweet Some-one with the sunny hair-
To start I felt not much inclined.

Too late! I cannot change my mind,
The paddles move! I am resigned-
I only know I would I were
On Dover Pier.

I wonder--will the Fates be kind?
On my return, and shall I find
That grey-eyed damsel passing fair,
So bonny, blithe, and debonair,
The pretty girl I left behind?
On Dover Pier?

J. ASHBY STERRY.

HOMESICK.

'Mid Autumn Leaves, now thickly shed,
We wander where our paths o'erspread,
With yellow russet, red and sere:
The country's looking dull and drear,
The sky is gloomy overhead.

The equinoctial gales we dread,
The summer's gone, the sunshine's fled;
We've rambled far enough this year-
'Mid Autumn Leaves.

Though fast our travel-time has sped,
On London's flags we long to tread;
The latest laugh and chaff to hear,
To find the Club grown doubly dear;
Its gas burns bright, its fire glows red-
'Mid Autumn Leaves.

J. ASHBY STERRY.

IN BEECHEN SHADE.

In beechen shade the hours are sweet,
By mist-veiled morn or noonday heat
(And sweeter still when daylight dies)
So soft the wandering streamlet sighs
In passage musical and fleet.

Full drowsily the white lambs bleat,
And tinkling bell-notes faintly beat
The languid air where Lacon lies
In beechen shade.

And still, when day and even meet;
Selene strays with golden feet,
That gleam along the low blue skies
And paceth slow, with dreaming eyes
That seek the shepherds' dim retreat
'Mid beechen shade.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

THE GATES OF HORN.

The Gates of Horn are dull of hue
(If all our wise men tell us true).
No songs, they say, nor perfumed air
Shall greet the wistful pilgrim there,
No leaves are green, no skies are blue.

Yet he who will may find a clue
(Mid shadows steeped in opal dew)
To seek, and see them passing fair,
The Gates of Horn.

The man that goes not wreathed with rue,
Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue,
With red rose-garlands in their hair
And garments gay with gold and vair,
Full fain to meet him trooping through
The Gates of Horn.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

IF LOVE BE TRUE.

If love be true-not bought at mart-
Though night and darkness hide from view,
What harshest of harsh things can part
The loved-one from the lover's heart,
Or stay the dreams that flit thereto?
If love be true dreams need no chart
To gain the goal to which they're due;
For love will guide them with love's dart,
If love be true.

If love be true, if thou be true,
Sweet love, as fair thou surely art,
Night shall not hide your eyes of blue
From my heart's eyes the long night through;
Though in sweet sadness tears may start,
If love be true.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

THE COQUETTE.

This pirate bold upon love's sea
Will let no passing heart go free;
No barque by those bright eyes espied
May sail away o'er life's blue tide
Till all its treasure yielded be.

Her craft, the _Conquest_, waits for thee,
Where her swift rapine none may see;
From shadowing coves on thee will glide
This pirate bold.

Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee,
Go, feign thyself love's refugee,
And crave sweet shelter;-she'll deride
Thy piteous suit with scornful pride;
And thou, thou shalt escape in glee
This pirate bold.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

YES OR NO?

A Good man's love! Oh, prithee, stay,
Before you turn such gift away,
And write no unconsidered "No"
To him who proves he loves you so,
And humbly owns your regal sway.

For hearts may change, the wise folk say,
And as full oft the brightest ray
Fades in an hour, so too may go
A Good man's love.

Then pause awhile. This short delay
May gladden many an after-day.
Search well your heart, and if it show
True signs of love, bid pride bend low,
And take this great gift while you may--
A Good man's love!

G. WEATHERLY.

MY WINDOW BIRDS.

My window birds, I love to strew
With punctual hands the crumb for you,
Flying for comfort day by day
From frozen woodland and highway,
And bringing Christmas bills now due!

Fair creditors of every hue
Crimson and yellow, brown and blue,
Whate'er your thoughts, your coats are gay,
My window birds.

Your claims are neither small nor few,
Dated, when May-flowers drank the dew,
And on sweet pipes ye used to play,
Scattering full many a golden lay;
Now ye for wages mutely sue,
My window birds.

REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A.

SNOWDROPS AND ACONITES.

Silver and gold! The snowdrop white
And yellow blossomed aconite,
Waking from Winter's slumber cold,
Their hoarded treasures now unfold,
And scatter them to left and right.

Ah, with how much more rare delight
Upon my sense their colours smite
Than if my fingers were to hold
Silver and gold.

They bear the superscription bright
Of the great King of love and might,
Who stamped such beauty there of old
That men might learn, as ages rolled,
To trust in God, nor worship quite
Silver and gold.

REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A.

THE CHIFF-CHAFF'S MESSAGE, HEARD IN MARCH.

"Cheer up, cheer up!" it seems to say,
As lighting on some leafless spray,
It shakes its dissyllabic song,
And with small beak, but courage strong,
Charges the East-wind all the day.

"Soon will the Swallow round you play,
The Nightingale be on its way,
Blue skies and gladness come ere long,
Cheer up, cheer up!"

Such happy voice be mine, I pray,
Bleak hours to bless with sunny ray,
A comfort life's rough path among;
Be mine to lighten pain and wrong,
Still letting fall a hopeful lay--
Cheer up, cheer up!

REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A.

"WHEN SUMMER DIES."

When Summer dies, the leaves are falling fast
In fitful eddies on the chilly blast,
And fields lie blank upon the bare hillside
Where erst the poppy flaunted in its pride,
And woodbine on the breeze its fragrance cast.

And where the hawthorn scattered far and wide
Its creamy petals in the sweet Springtide
Red berries hang, for birds a glad repast
When summer dies.

Gone are the cowslips and the daisies pied;
The swallow to a warmer clime hath hied;
The beech has shed its store of bitter mast,
And days are drear and skies are overcast,
But Love will warm our hearts whate'er betide
When summer dies.

ARTHUR G. WRIGHT.

MY LITTLE SWEETHEART.

Across the pew, with complaisance
And eyes that with Love's sunshine dance,
My little sweetheart smiles at me--
She is the only saint I see;
The sermon passes in a trance.

The painted figures gaze askance,
Down from their glassy vigilance,
On this our tender heresy
Across the pew.

Ah! little sweetheart, the romance
Of Life, with all its change and chance,
Is but a sealëd book to thee--
When opened, may its pages be
As fair and sweet as thy bright glance
Across the pew!

ARTHUR G. WRIGHT.

THREE ROUNDELS.

I.

Love, though I die, and dying lave
My soul in Lethe endlessly,
Losing all else, I still would save
--Love, though I die--

Thy living presence, touch and sigh,
All that the golden moments gave
To vanished hours of ecstasy.

Then make thou great and wide my grave,
So wide we two therein may lie;
For sense of thee my soul will crave,
Love, though I die.

II.

My lips refuse to take farewell of bliss,
Sweet Love! so sweet and false, I can but choose
To leave thee, only parting word and kiss
My lips refuse.

Fancy wears livery of a thousand hues,
So love in idleness may come to this!
And I must bring the thought to common use

That ever--save in memory--I shall miss
Thy short-lived tenderness-ever lose
All that has taught how dear a thing it is
My lips refuse.

III.

Other lips than yours intreat
Those I vowed in vanished hours,
Never Fate should force to greet
Other lips than yours.

Memory dulls, perchance, or sours
What was once so keenly sweet,
Being ours and only ours.

All the life and heart and heat,
All the soul that love outpours,
Dies upon the lips that meet
Other lips than yours.