Chapter VII: Part IV: Familiar Verse, and Poems Humorous and Satiric (3)

May--Robinson's, the chestnut trees-- Were ever crowds as gay as these? The quick pale waiters on a run, The round green tables, one by one, Hidden away in amorous bowers-- Lilac, laburnum's golden showers. Kiss, clink of glasses, laughter heard, And nightingales quite undeterred. And then that last extravagance-- O Jeanne, a single amber glance Will pay him!--"Let's play millionaire For just two hours--on princely fare, At some hotel where lovers dine A deux and pledge across the wine." They find a damask breakfast-room, Where stiff silk roses range their bloom. The garcon has a splendid way Of bearing in grand dejeuner. Then to be left alone, alone, High up above Rue Castiglione; Curtained away from all the rude Rumors, in silken solitude; And, John, her head upon your knees-- Time waits for moments such as these.

Florence Wilkinson [18

"ONE, TWO, THREE!"

It was an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy that was half-past three; And the way that they played together Was beautiful to see.

She couldn't go running and jumping, And the boy, no more could he; For he was a thin little fellow, With a thin little twisted knee.

They sat in the yellow sunlight, Out under the maple tree; And the game that they played I'll tell you, Just as it was told to me.

It was Hide-and-Go-Seek they were playing, Though you'd never have known it to be-- With an old, old, old, old lady, And a boy with a twisted knee.

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