Chapter II

As these petals
Die not,
So the thought that settles
Softly in the purple petals
Fly not!
Half a memory, which a world of men
Can buy not,--
Half a prayer, that till we meet again
Thou sigh not!

LA BELLE TROMBONISTE.

How grave she sits and toots In the glare! From her dainty bits of boots To her hair Not the sign remotest shows If she either cares or knows How the beer-imbibing beaux Sit and stare.

They're most prodigal with sighs, Or they laugh; Or they cast adoring eyes As they quaff. They exert their every wile Her attention to beguile. Do they ever win a smile? Not by half!

She leans upon her chin (Not a toot!), While the leading violin And the flute Wail and plead in low duet Till, it may be, eyes are wet. She her trombone doth forget-- She is mute.

The music louder grows; She's awake! She applies her lips and blows-- Goodness sake!...... To think that such a peal From such throat and frame ideal, From such tender lips could steal-- Takes the cake!

The dinning cymbals shrill Kiss and clash. Drum and kettle-drum at will Roll and crash. But that trombone over all Toots unto my heart a call;-- Maid petite, and trombone tall-- It's a mash!

Yet, I hesitate--for lo, What a pout! She's poetic; and I know I am stout. In her little room would she On her trombone, tenderly, Sit and toot as thus to me?-- Ah, I doubt!

THE POET IS BIDDEN TO MANHATTAN ISLAND.

Dear Poet, quit your shady lanes
And come where more than lanes are shady.
Leave Phyllis to the rustic swains
And sing some Knickerbocker lady.
O hither haste, and here devise
Divine ballades before unuttered.
Your poet's eyes must recognize
The side on which your bread is buttered!

Dream not I tempt you to forswear
One pastoral joy, or rural frolic.
I call you to a city where
The most urbane are most bucolic.
'Twill charm your poet's eyes to find
Good husbandmen in brokers burly;--
Their stock is ever on their mind;
To water it they rise up early.

Things you have sung, but ah, not seen--
Things proper to the age of Saturn--
Shall greet you here; for we have been
Wrought quaintly, on the Arcadian pattern.
Your poet's lips will break in song
For joy, to see at last appearing
The bulls and bears, a peaceful throng,
While a lamb leads them--to the shearing!

And metamorphoses, of course,
You'll mark in plenty, à la Proteus:
A bear become a little horse--
Presumably from too much throat-use!
A thousandfold must go untold;
But, should you miss your farm-yard sunny,
And miss your ducks and drakes, behold
We'll make you ducks and drakes--of money!

Greengrocers here are fairly read.
And should you set your heart upon them,
We lack not beets--but some are dead,
While others have policemen on them.
And be the dewfall dear to you,
Possess your poet's soul in patience!
Your notes shall soon be falling dew,--
Most mystical of transformations!

Your heart, dear Poet, surely yields;
And soon you'll leave your uplands flowery,
Forsaking fresh and bowery fields,
For "pastures new"--upon the Bowery!
You've piped at home, where none could pay,
Till now, I trust, your wits are riper.
Make no delay, but come this way,
And pipe for them that pay the piper!

THE BLUE VIOLET.

Blossom that spread'st, as spring brings in
Her sudden flights of swallows,
Thy nets of blue, cool-meshed and thin,
In rain-wet pasture hollows,--

Thronging the dim grass everywhere
Amid thy heart-leaves tender,
Thy temperate fairness seems more fair
Even than August's splendor!

Yet do I hear complaints of thee,--
Men doubting of thy fragrance!
But, Dear, thou hast revealed to me
That shyest of perfume-vagrants.

Do ever so, my Flower discreet,
And all the world be fair to,
While men but guess that rarest sweet
Which one alone can swear to!