-^vja»'-n ,-> -fm 111 ■■■■n"i^iiii"WMinnwOrt»»'>nri'W»w irrM~ni r I iin nm THE MUSES OF MAYFAIR H. GHOLMONDELEY-PENNELL ^i-- -TK ■rC'^r. :*, *^3^ Than thou. V Thine is the spell that charms alike the sage, ,T*^ Craving repose for wearied brain and eye, ■'sJ And the fair child lingering her play-hour by Thy page. ^ <:» ^ ^ ^ No vulrar lures, no tinsel arts are thine V) To gild the common coarseness of the herd — ^' Still be thyself, unblamed in thought or word. And shine. And for the lustre of thy name I hold N^ Twice dear, old friend, this gleaned and garnered sheaf, Which thence shall gain one doubly-treasured leaf Of gold. H. C. P. ^X NOTE BY THE EDITOR. HE greater part of the poems in this collection are copyright, and are presented by the very kind and courteous permission of their authors and publishers. A few — including the translations at the end of the volume — have not appeared before in print. H. Cholmondeley Pennell. London, May 1874. CONTENTS. JVUTHOR. POEM. PAGE A'idi, Hamilton, Beauty Clare I >> Eques Solitarius . • 5 >> Winfred's Hair . • 7 >> A Bunch of Violets 9 Aldrich, T. Bailey, . On an Intaglio Head of Minerva II Ashhy-Sterry, J., Saint May .... • 13 j» Pet's Punishment . . i6 j> The Impartial . i8 Austin, Alfred, Blanche .... 20 >i Lost • 23 jj Grata Juventas . 26 w Lady Mabel . . . . 28 >J At the Lattice 30 Barnard, Dr, Fault-Mending 32 Bayly, Thos. ITaynes, The Archery Meeting . 34 99 Won't you ? . • 37 >> Don't talk of September 39 )> You never knew Annette 42 ^.'//«;«j', IF. H., KirtleRed .... 44 Elanchard, E. Forster, To an Utter Stranger . 46 CONTENTS. AUTHOR. Blanchard, E. Laman, Bowles, Caroline (Airs The Pet Canary PAGE 49 Soidhey), The Treaty .... • 51 Bret Harte, What the Wolf really said to LittU Red Riding-Hood . . 55 Brough, Robert B., . Neighbour Nelly . • 57 Browjiittg, Robert, . A Likeness .... . 60 >» A Song .... • 63 »> Youth and Art . 64 Browning, E. Barrett, Amy's Cruelty . 67 >» A False Step • 70 >> A Man's Requirements . 72 Byron, George, Lord, On Fame .... . 75 " c. s. cr Ode to Tobacco . • 77 )> Soracte .... . 80 r> Lines on the 14th of February . 81 » In the Gloaming . . 83 » Under the Trees . . 86 Clarke, H. Saville, . The Romance of a Glove 89 Cloiigh, Arthur Hugh, Kensington 92 >> Going with the Stream • 94 Coleridge, S. Taylor, . The Exchange 96 Collins, Mortimer, A Summer Song . 97 My Old Coat . . . . 99 The Best Thing said To-Night . 102 A Game of Chess . . . . 105 AdChloen, M.A. 107 Chloe, M.A., ad a/nantem siiiiin . 109 CONTENTS. xi AUTHOR. POEM. PAGE Cornwall, Barry, My Old Arm-Chair III Cowper, William, The Winter Nosegay . 114 Symptoms of Love 116 With a Purse 118 Dobsoit, Austin, Avice ..... 119 )> Pot-Pourri .... 123 » Tu Quoque . . . • 126 Fitzge)-ald, Edward, . "Good-night" . 130 Craves, A. Percrval, . Irish Eyes .... • 133 5 J An Iri^h Grace 135 Grey, Ethel, A Birthday in June . 138 j» A Valentine .... 140 j> Fruit 142 Heber, Reginald, Sympathy .... 143 Holmes, 0. IVend^ll, . The Last Leaf . 145 n Daily Trials .... 148 j> My Aunt .... 151 Hood, Thovias, sen., . Lines in a Young Lady's Album . 154 To Minerva .... • 157 n " Please to ring the Belle" . 158 }> The Time of Roses . 160 Hood, Thomas, jitn., . Gretchen .... . 162 » Little Fan , . . . . 164 j> All m the Downs . 166 » The Bracelet . 16S Hunt, Leigh, . Rondeau .... . 169 >» A Love-Lesson . 170 )) Love and Age • 171 xu CONTENTS. AUTHOR. Ligelow, jfean, . Ingoldsby, Thomas {Barkam), Kingslcy, Rev. Charles, Landor, W. Savazc . Leland, C. G. {Hans Breitmann), . Leigh, Henry S., Locker, Frederick, Lowell, yames Russell, POEM. Lattice White The Poplar . Sing Heigh-ho ! . The Effects of Age The Portrait-Painter High and Dry Commination No Longer Jealous Defiance There 's a Time to be Jolly What might have been A Clumsy Servant A Begging Letter My Love and my Heart My Partner . Not a Match To my Grandmother . Reply to a Letter enclosing a of Hair My Neighbour Rose Mrs Smith . My Mistress's Boots Gerty's Glove Gerty's Necklace . Without and Within " Auf Wiedersehen ! " Lock PAGE 172 179 iSi 183 184 185 186 187 188 190 192 194 197 199 202 204 208 213 217 220 223 225 227 230 CONTENTS. xui AUTHOR. POEM. PAGE Lowell, James Riissdl, An Ember Picture . . . 232 Lyiton, Lord Edwa7-d I The Fairy's Reproach • 235 Bnhoer, ) Nydia's Love-Song • 237 Macaulay, Lwd, A Valentine . • 239 Mackay, Charles, Love's Reasoning • 242 Martin, Theodore, To a Forget-me-not . 244 Meredith, Oweit, Madame la Marquise • 247 » The Chessboard . . . 251 >> " Since we Parted " . . . 253 Moore, Thomas, The Time I 've lost in Wooing . 254 Love and Reason • 256 »> Love and Friendship . • 257 Morris, Captain C. . The Contrast . 259 Paton, Sir % Noel, . Love and Friendship : a Conceit 262 Peacock, Thomas Z. , Years Ago . . 264 Praed, IV. Mackmrth, Our Ball . .268 » To Helen . • 274 » . The Belle of the Ball-room . . 275 »> A Letter of Advice . . 281 Prowse, W. J., . The Pace that Kills . . 287 >» My Lost Old Age . 289 Possetti, Christina, . "No, thank you, John ! " . . 292 Rossetii, D. Gabriel, . A Match with the IMoon . . 295 Saioye); William, At the Opera — " Faus ." . . 296 )» Rose Song . . 298 .S"(7;t:(', J. God/re}', My Familiar • 300 9} Augusta • 304 ft " Do you think he is married ? " . 305 xiv CONTENTS. AUTHOR. POEM. PAGE Shelley, Percy Bysshe, Love's Philosophy 308 » To E V . . . 310 Smith, Horace, . Song to Fanny . . . . 311 Spencer, Hon. W. R., To Lady Anne Hamilton . 312 )> Epitaph upon the Year 1806 ■h^l !) Wife, Children, and Friends 315 Stainforth, Frank, Little Gerty 317 Swain, Charles, The Husband's Song . 320 Swinburne, A. C, A Match . . . . . 322 3) Felise .... 325 )J An Interlude . . . . 328 Tennyson, Alfred, Lilian .... 332 )> To a Coquette . . . . 334 Thornbury, Walter.^ . Under the Cliffs . 335 » The Falling of the Leaves . . 337 Unknown, Kitty of Coleraine 33-9 ?> A Ball-room Romance . 341 Walker, Sydney, Thirteen .... • 344 Westwood, Thotnas, . Under my Window . 346 ) J The Proudest Lady . 348 )> Little Bell .... • 350 Willis, N. Parker, . Love in a Cottage . 352 Wolcot, John, . To a Fish .... . 354 CONTENTS. XV TRANSLA TIONS FROM THE FRENCH AND GERMAN By Ethel Grey. AUTHOR. Barateau, Eiiiile, Biranger, Gautier, Theophile, . Hugo, Victor, . )> Chamisso, Albert von, Herloszsohn, Carl, Uhland . Wegener . rOEM. Twenty Years Rosette Tiresome Spring ! She is so Pretty The Cricket on the Hearth An Invitation My Pretty Neighbour "Arise!" , Three Kisses A Love Test The Bouquet The Mistaken Moth . PAGE 359 361 Z^Z 365 367 369 371 373 375 378 380 381 ^'BEAUTY CLAREr ^Rxtract.^ Hamilton Aide. )ALF Lucrece, half Messalina, Lovely piece of Sevres china, When I see you, I compare You with common, quiet creatures. Homely delf in ways and features — Beauty Clare ! Surely Nature must have meant you For a Syren, when she sent you That sweet voice and glittering hair — Was it touch of human passion Made you woman, in a fashion — Beauty Clare ? A BEAUTY CLARE. I think not. The moral door-step Cautiously you never o'er-step When your victims you ensnare — — Lead them on with hopes — deceive them- Then turn coldly round, and leave them, Beauty Clare. Some new slave I note each season, Wearing life away, his knees on (Moths around the taper's flare !) Guardsman fine, — or young attache, Black and smooth as papier-mache' ; Beauty Clare. In your box I see them dangling, Triumphs of successful angling, Trophies ranged behind your chair; How they watch the fan you flutter ! How they drink each word you utter. Beauty Clare ! BEAUTY CLARE. When at kettle-drums presiding, I admire your tact, dividing Smiles to each, in equal share, Lest one slave wax over-jealous, Or another grow less zealous, Beauty Clare ! What perfection in your waltzing ! How in vain the women all sing, When you warble some sweet air ! But, your sentimental ditty Over, — you are then the witty Beauty Clare. How you light the smouldering embers Of decrepit Peers and Members ! While you still have smiles to spare For a new-fledged boy from college, Sitting dX your feet for knowledge ! — Beauty Clare ! BEAUTY CLARE. At your country seat in Salop, What contention for a gallop With you, on your chestnut mare How the country-misses hate you, Seeing o'er a five-barred gate, — you. Beauty Clare ! All-accomplished little creature ! Fatally endowed by nature, — Were your inward soul laid bare. What should we discover under That seductive mask, I wonder, Beauty Clare? EQUES SOLITARIUS. Hamilton Aid^. RODE in the bright spring weather, 'Neath the hawthorn's budding branch, In my doublet of Spanish leather, And beside me Lady Blanche. The birds sang out their love songs, The young leaves slipped their sheaths, — I — only I- — on Hope's gay stream Flung out no fragrant wreaths. I thought that she loved another — "And how," with scorn I cried, " She will barter her true heart's treasure For the grace of my acres wide !" EQUES SOLITARIUS. So I never trusted her blushes, Nor the smile of her gracious lips, And I steeled my heart, as I bent my face, And touched her finger-tips. And oft in the years that followed, When Blanche was past away, I rode 'neath those budding hawthorns With daraoisels fair and gay. But even through song and laughter, I heard my sad heart sigh Too late, for the priceless treasure, That I had thrown, careless, by ! WINFRED'S HAIR. Hamilton AiD£. INFRED, waking in the morning, Locks dishevelled, sighed, " Alas Broken is the Venice-bodkin That you gave me — 'twas of glass. All my auburn hair, henceforward, Shall be given to the wind." Ere the evening came, another's Net of pearls her hair confined. Frail as the Venetian bauble I had thrust in Winfred's hair, Lo ! the net now snapped asunder Other hands had fastened there ; WINFRED'S HAIR. Ere the moon's wide-blossomed petals On the breast of night had died, Net and bodkin both deserted, Winfred's glittering hair flowed wide ! Silver comb and silken fillet Next, in turn, the wild hair bound, Till, at length, the crown of wifehood Clasped its hands that hair around. Golden crown of Love ! displacing Girlhood's vain adornments there, Winfred never more shall alter. Now, the fashion of her hair. A BUNCH OF VIOLETS. Hamilton A'lDfi. HERE is the bunch of violets She crushed in her ivory pahn, The night she beheld that fair-haired girl On Reginald Ashton's arm. They can tell no secrets : They can never betray How the passionate heart, in that hour, Burnt to its core away. For, as upon grass a circle Marks where the fire hath been, In her heart of hearts are ashes. Where dew once fed the green. lo A BUNCH OF VIOLETS. But the violets tell no secrets ; They in the old desk lie, 'Mong bundles of yellow letters, Where they were flung to die. She never reads the letters, Nor touches the withered leaves ; She never looks behind her, Nor over the dead past grieves. Vigilant, keen and active. With ready, helpful hands, To lift the burthen from others, In the world's highway she stands. But all the romance of girlhood. The youth-time of hope and pride. Were swept away the evening That bunch of violets died ! ON AN I NT A GLIO HEAD OF MINER VA. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. HE cunning hand that carved this face, A Uttle hehneted Minerva — The hand, I say, ere Phidias wrought, Had lost its subtle skill and fervour. Who was he ? Was he glad or sad ? Who knew to carve in such a fashion ? Perchance he shaped this dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion. But he is dust : we may not know His happy or unhappy story : Nameless and dead these thousand years, His work outlives him — there 's his glory ! 12 ON AN INTAGLIO. Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city ; The thousand summers came and went, With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity. The years wiped out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom. Till some Visconti dug it up, To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom. O Roman brother ! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded ; See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded. Who would not suffer slights of men. And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate stone On such a bosom rise and fall so ! SAINT MAY: A CITY LYRIC. J. Ashby-Sterry. ^T ALOYS the Great is both mouldy and grim, The decalogue's dusty, the windows are dim ; Not knowing the road there, you '11 long have to search To find your way into this old City church; Yet on fine Sunday mornings I frequently stray There to see a new saint, whom I've christened St May. Of saints I 've seen plenty in churches before — In Florence or Venice they're there by the score ; Agnese, Maria — the rest I forget — By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret : 14 ST MA Y. They none can compare, though they 're well in their way, In maidenly grace with my dainty St May. She's young for a saint, for she's scarcely eighteen, And ne'er could wear peas in those dainty hottines ; Her locks are not shaven, and 'twould be a sin To wear a hair-shirt next that delicate skin ; Save diagonal stripes on a dress of light gray, Stripes ne'er have been borne by bewitching S ]\Iay. Then she's almost too plump and too round for a saint, With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint ; She has no mediaeval nor mortified mien. No wimple of yellow, nor background of green, A nimbus of hair throws its sunshiny ray Of glory around the fair face of St May. ST MAY. '5 What surquayne or partlet could look better than My saint's curly jacket of black Astracan ? What coif than her bonnet — a triumph of skill — Or alb than her petticoat edged with a frill ? So sober, yet smiling — so grave, yet so gay, Oh, where is a saint like my charming St May ? PET'S PUNISHMENT. J, Ash BY Sterry. H, if my love offended me, And \ve had \vords together, To show her I would master be, I 'd whip her with a feather ! If then she, like a naughty girl, Would tyranny declare it, I 'd give my pet a cross of pearl, And make her always bear it. If still she tried to sulk and sigh, And threw away my posies, I 'd catch my darling on the sly. And smother her with roses ! PET'S PUNISHMENT. 17 But should she clench her dimpled fists, Or contradict her betters, I 'd manacle her tiny wrists With dainty golden fetters. And if she dared her lips to pout — Like many pert young misses — I 'd wind my arm her waist about. And punish her — with kisses ! THE IMPARTIAL: A BOAT-RACE SKETCH. J. Ashby-Sterry. GTpN sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning — ^ ^ Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the " blues "— With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning, Whilst tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose. If you'll narrowly watch 'midst thenoiseand contention, You '11 note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust, A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentian 'Neath her little white collar half carelessly thrust! The tint of a night in the still summer weather Her tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold. THE IMPARTIAL. »9 Whilst delicate cuffs are scarce fastened together By dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold. Ah, climax of sweet girlish neutral devices ! What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs !- She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis, Whilst those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes. BLANCHE. [An Extract from ^^ The Season "\ Alfred Austin. *0U knew Blanche Darley ? could we but once more Behold that belle and pet of '54 Not e'en a whisper, vagrant up to town From hunt or race-ball, augured her renown. Far in the wolds sequestered life she led, Fair and unfettered as the fawn she fed : Caressed the calves, coquetted with the colts, Bestowed much tenderness on turkey poults : Bullied the huge ungainly bloodhound pup, Tiifed with the terrier, coaxed to make it up : BLANCHE. 21 The farmers quizzed about the ruined crops, The fall of barley, and the rise of hops : Gave their wives counsel, but gave flannel too, Present where'er was timely deed to do ; Known, loved, applauded, prayed for, far and wide — The wandering sunshine of the country side. So soft her tread, no nautilus that skims With sail more silent than her liquid limbs. Her hair so golden that, did slanting eve With a stray curl its sunlight interweave, Smit with surprise, you gazed, but could not guess AVhich the warm sunbeam, which the warmer tress. Her presence was low music ; when she went, She left behind a dreamy discontent. As sad as silence when a song is spent. — She came — we saw— were conquered : one and all We donned the fetters of delicious thrall. We fetched, we carried, waited, doffed, and did Just as our Blanche the beautiful would bid. Such crowds petitioned her at every ball For "just one waltz," she scarce could dance at all ! 22 BLANCHE. Her card besieged with such intrigues and sighs, It might have been the pass-book to the skies. VV^e lost our heads. Have women wiser grown ? A marvel surely, had she kept her own ! LOST. Alfred Austin. f"^ WEET lark ! that bedded in the tangled grass, / Protractest dewy slumbers, wake, arise ! The brightest moments of the morning pass — Thou shouldst be up, and carolling in the skies. Go up ! go up ! and melt into the blue, And to heaven's veil on wings of song repair ; But, ere thou dost descend to earth, peep through, And see if she be there. Sweet stockdove ! cooing in the flushing wood, On one green bough brooding till morn hath died, Oh, leave the perch where thou too long hast stood, And with strong wings flutter the leaves aside ! 24 LOST. Fly on, fly on, past feathery copse, nor stay Till thou hast skimmed o'er all the woodlands fair ! And when thou hast, then speeding back thy way, Tell me if she be there. Sweet breeze ! that, wearied with the heat of noon, Upon a bank of daffodils didst die. Oh, if thou lov'st me, quit thy perfumed swoon, And, all refreshed, hither and thither hie. Traverse the glades where browse the dappled deer, Thrid the deep dells where none but thou mayst dare; And then, sw'eet breeze, returning to my ear, Whisper if she be there. Sweet rivulet ! running far too fast to stay, Yet hear my plaint, e'en as thou rollest on ! I am alone— alone— both night and day. For she I love was with me, and is gone. LOST. 25 Oh, shouldst thou find her on the golden beach Whither thou speedest ocean's joys to share, Remount thy course, despite what sophists teach. And tell me she is there. Not there ! nor there ! not in the far-off sky, Close-keeping woods, or by the shining sea ! When lark, dove, breeze, and rivulet vainly try To find my sweet — oh, where then may she be ? Hath she then left me — me she vowed so dear, And she whose shadow dusks all other charms ? O foolish messengers ! Look, look ! She 's here, Enfolded in my arms ! ^^^^^^^^r:^v(^^^-r^g^ " ■" ^ ^/^^o GRATA J WENT AS. Alfred Austin. ft HE trembles when I touch Y The tips of scarce-grown finger?, Yet seems to think it overmuch If for a moment Ungers Grasp that I hardly meant for such. She clutcheth toy or book, Or female hand beside her ; Now with askant, unsettled look Inviteth, then doth hide her, Like struggling lily in a brook. GRATA yu VENT AS. 27 Anon she darteth glance Athwart averted shoulder ; But when encouraged I advance A sudden waxing colder, Her gaze lacks all significance. Oh, v^ere she younger still, Or more than a beginner, I might control my troubled will, Or give it rein and win her : But now she is nor good nor ill. LADY MABEL. Alfred Austin. £lDE by side with Lady Mabel Sate I, with the sunshade down ; In the distance hummed the Babel Of the many-footed town ; There we sat with looks unstable, — Now of tenderness, of frown. " Must M-e part ? or may I linger ? Wax the shadows, wanes the day." Then, with voice of sweetest singer That hath all but died away, " Go," she said ; but tightened finger Said articulately, " Stay ! " LADY MABEL. 29 Face to face with Lady Mabel, With the gauzy curtains drawn, Till a sense I am unable To portray, began to dawn ; Till the slant sun flung the gable Far athwart the sleepy lawn. " Now I go. Adieu, adieu, love ! This is weakness , sweet, be strong. Comes the footfall of the dew, love ! Philomel's reminding song." " Go," she said ; " but I go too, love ! Go with you— my life along !" -|-^^>^|- AT THE LATTICE. Alfred Austin. mEHIND the curtain, With glance uncertain, Peeps Pet Florence as I gaily ride ; Half demurely, But, though purely, Most, most surely AVishing she were riding, riding by my side. In leafy alleys. Where sunlight dallies, Pleasant were it, bonnie, to be riding rein by rein ; And where summer tosses, All about in bosses, Velvet verdant mosses, Still more pleasant, surely, to dismount AT THE LATTICE. 31 O thou Beauty ! Hanging ripe and fruity At the muslined lattice in the drooping eve, Wliisper from the casement If that blushing face meant, " At the cottage basement, Gallant, halt, I come to thee; I come to never leave." But if those coy lashes Stir for whoso dashes Past the scented window in the fading light, Close the lattice, sweetest ; Darkness were discreetest ; And, with bridle fleetest, I will gallop onwards, unattended, through the night. " FA UL T- mending:' \_Ex(7-act. ] Dr Barnard. LATELY thought no man alive Could e'er improve past forty-five, And ventured to assert it. The observation was not new, But seemed to me so just and true That none could controvert it. **No, sir," said Johnson, "'tis not so; 'Tis your mistake, and I can show An instance, if you doubt it. You, who perhaps are fort3'-eight, May still improve, 'tis not too late ; I wish you 'd set about it."' FA UL T-MENDING. 33 Encouraged thus to mend my faults, I turned his counsel in my thoughts Which way I could apply it ; Genius I knew was past my reach, For who can learn w^hat none can teach ? And wit — I could not buy it. Then come, my friends, and try your skill ; You may improve me if you will, (My books are at a distance :) With you I '11 live and learn, and then Instead of books I shall read men, So lend me your assistance. THE ARCHERY MEETING. Thomas Haynes Bayly. I. )HE archery meeting is fixed for the Third j The fuss that it causes is truly absurd ; I 've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess, And now I must buy each an archery dress ! Without a green suit they would blush to be seen, And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green. II. Poor fat little Rosa, she "s shooting all day ! She sends forth an arrow expertly, they say ; But 'tis terrible when with exertion she warms. And she seems to me getting such muscular arms; THE ARCHERY MEETING. And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she missed, Prize bracelets could never be placed on her wrists. Ill, Dear Bess, with her elegant figure and face, Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place ; But as for the shooting — she never takes aim ; She talks so and laughs so! — the beaux are to blame ; She doats on flirtation — but oh ! by the bye, 'Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs Flint's eye ! IV. They 've made my poor husband an archer elect ; He dresses the part with prodigious effect ; A pair of nankeens, with a belt round his waist, And a quiver of course, in which arrows are placed ; And a bow in his hand — oh ! he looks of all things Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings ! V. They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas ! Must sit on camp-stools with our feet in the grass ; 36 THE ARCHERY MEETING. My Flora and Bessy no partners attract ! The archery men are all cross beaux in fact ! Among the young ladies some hits there may be, But still at my elbow two misses I see ! WON'T YOU? Thomas Haynes Bayly, O you remember when you heard My lips breathe love's first faltering word ? You do, sweet — don't you? When having wandered all the day, Linked arm in arm, I dared to say, '^ You '11 love me — won't you ? " II. And when you blushed, and could not speak, I fondly kissed your glowing cheek ; Did that affront you ? Oh, surely not ; your eye exprest No wrath — but said, perhaps in jest, " You '11 love me — won't you ? " 38 WON'T YOU? HI. I 'm sure my eyes replied, " I will ; " And you believe that promise still ; You do, sweet — don't you ? Yes, yes ! when age has made our eyes Unfit for questions or replies, You '11 love me — won't you ? DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER. Thomas Haynes Bayly. ON'T talk of September !— a lady , Must think it of all months the worst ; The men are preparing already To take themselves off on the First. I try to arrange a small party, The girls dance together ; how tame ! I 'd get up my game of ecarte', But they go to bring down ihcir game ! II. Last month, their attention to quicken, A supper I knew was the thing ; But now from my turkey and chicken They 're tempted by birds on the wing ! 40 DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER. They shoulder their terrible rifles, (It's really too much for my nerves !) And slighting my sweets and my trifles, Prefer my Lord Harry's preserves ! III. Miss Lovemore, with great consternation, Now hears of the horrible plan. And fears that her little flirtation "Was only a flash iu the pan ! Oh ! marriage is hard of digestion, The men are all sparing of words; And now, 'stead of popping the question, They set off" to pop at the birds. IV. Go, false ones, your aim is so horrid. That love at the sight of you dies ; You care not for locks on the forehead, The locks made by Manton you prize ! All thoughts sentimental exploding, YJ^Q flints I behold you depart ; DON'T TALK OF SEPTEMBER. 41 You heed not, when priming and loading, The load you have left on my heart ! V. They talk about patent percussions. And all preparations for sport ; And those double-barrel discussions Exhaust double bottles of port ! The dearest is deaf to my summons, As off on his pony he jogs; A doleful condition is woman's ; The men are all gone to the dogs. YOU NEVER KNEW ANNETTE. Thomas Haynes Bayly. )j(J^OU praise each youthful form you see, And love is still your theme ; A.nd when you win no praise from me You say how cold I seem. You know not what it is to pine With ceaseless vain regret ; You never felt a love like mine, — You never knew Annette. II. For ever changing, still you rove, As I in boyhood roved ; "But when you tell me this is love, It proves you never loved. YOU NEVER KNEW ANNETTE. 43 To many idols you have knelt, And therefore soon forget ; But what I feel you never felt,- You never knew Annette. KIRTLE RED. W. H. Bellamy. DAMSEL fair, on a summer's clay — — 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; " Somebody has kept tryst," it said, " With somebody else in a kirtle red, And they are going to be married." — Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer ! KIRTLE RED. 45 " 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 ! * * Reprinted, from the song of ''Kirtle Red," by permission of Messrs Boosey & Co. TO AN UTTER STRANGER, E. F. Blanchard. '^PT cannot be said I Ve no love u Because I 've no sighs ; Believe me not utterly blind, For slighting your eyes. No violet, — purple, not red, — Can rival their hue ; Maria's are hazel you know — Well, hazel will do. I will not deny that your hair Is black as the wings TO AN UTTER STRANGER. 47 Of ravens — I 'm tired of ravens — The troublesome things. ]\Iaria's is certainly auburn, Whatever you say — Rich colour that runs little risk Of changing to gray. And though it appears that her lips Are not " stung by bees," The kisses they '11 possibly give Will equally please. I cannot pretend to assert Her teeth to be pearls — Her locks to be hyacinth leaves— They're curls — simply curls. And down where they nestle below Her unswanlike neck, A bosom that 's not alabaster They happily deck. The light heart that 's dancing beneath That breast, gives me life ; The lips utter merely one word — Sweet sentiment — wife. 48 TO AN UTTER STRANGER. It cannot be said I 've no heart Because it won't break — Life or soul, because I decline To die for your sake. THE PET CANARY. E. Laman Blanchard. ■nV IRD of the household ! songster of home, Whose notes in a wild burst of harmony come, Like a voice from the woods, or a song by the stream Of Youth's early May-time and Love's early dream ; Thy cage is aio prison, no captive thus sings. And free in the sun flies the gold of thy wings. " Pretty Dick ! " let thy mistress, sweet, whisper a word — Her heart is a captive much more than her bird. Oh, would thou couldst utter her thoughts in thy lay, Then free shouldst thou fly to the one far away, 5° THE PET CANARY. And tell him how oft with her bird in the cage She has talked of the absent and looked at his gage. Thou shouldst give him the kiss I am giving to thee, And say it was sent as a token from me. *' Pretty Dick ! " if he told you no more we should part, Thy wings could not flutter much more than my heart. THE TREATY. Caroline Bowi.ks. EVER tell me of loving by measure and weight, As one's merits may lack or abound 3 As if love could be carried to market like skate, And cheapened for so much a pound. If it can — \i yours can, let them have it who care — ■ You and I, friend ! shall never agree — Pack up and to market be off with your ware ; It 's a great deal too common for me. 52 THE TREATY. D' ye linger ?— d' ye laugh ? — I "m in earnest, I vow — Though perhaps over-hasty a thought ; If you're thinking to close with my terms as they are, Well and good — but I won't bate a jot. You must love me — we '11 note the chief articles now, To preclude all mistakes in our pact — And I '11 pledge you, unasked and beforehand, my vow, To give double for all I exact. You must love me — not only through " evil report," When its falsehood you more than divine ; But when upon earth I can only resort To vour heart as a voucher for mine. You must love — not my faults — but in spite of them — me, For the very caprices that vex you : Nay, the more, should you chance (as it 's likely) to see 'Tis my special delight to perplex you. THE TREATV. 53 You must love me, albeit the world I offend By impertinence, whimsies, conceit ; While assured (if you are not, all treaty must end) That I never can stoop to deceit. While assured (as you must be, or there too we part) That were all the world leagued against you, To loosen one hair of your hold on my heart Would be more than "life's labours " could do. You must love me, howe'er I may take things amiss. Whereof you in all conscience stand clear ; And although, when you'd fain make it up with a kiss, Your reward be a box on the ear. You must love me — not only when smiling and gay, Complying, sweet tempered, and civil; But when moping, and frowning, and forward — or say The thing plain out — as cross as the devil. 54 THE TREA 7Y. You must love me in all moods — in seriousness, sport ; Under all change of circumstance too : Apart, or together, in crowds, or — in short. You must love me — because I love yoti. ^ WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD. Bret Harte. )ONDERING maiden, so puzzled and fair, Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare ? " Why are my eyelids so open and wild ? " Only the better to see with, my child ! Only the better and clearer to view Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue. Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, Swaying so wickedly ?— are they misplaced Clasping or shielding some delicate waist ? 56 WHAT THE WOLF SAID TO RED RIDING-HOOD. Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear Only the better protect you, my dear ! Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, Why AY, but you, who do not love her, / luQ ^^ ^^^^ "°^ P^^^ goltl, my mistress? Holds earth aught — speak truth — above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last foirest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall ! TT. Because, you spend your lives in praising ; To praise, you search the wide world over ; So, why not witness, calmly gazing. If earth holds aught — speak truth — above her ? Above this tress, and this I touch But cannot praise, I love so much ! VO UTH A ND ART. Robert Browning. )T once might have been, once only : We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on tlie housetop lonely I, a lone she-bird of his feather. Your trade was with sticks and clay ; You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished, Then laughed, "They will see some day Smith made, and Gibson demolished ! " My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered !" VO UTH A ND ART. 65 I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster \ You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master. Why did not you pmch a flower In a pellet ot" clay, and fling it ? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it? No, no ! you would not be rash. Nor I rasher and something over : You 've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. Each life 's unfulfilled, you see ; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy : We have not sighed deep, laughed free. Starved, feasted, despaired, — been happy. E 66 YOUTH AND ART. And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever : This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it for ever. AMY'S CRUELTY. Mrs Browning. AIR Amy of the terraced house ! Assist me to discover Why you, who would not hurt a mouse, Can torture so a lover ? You give your coffee to the cat. You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee's humming. But when he haunts your door — the town Marks coming and marks going — You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing ! 68 AMY'S CRUELTY. You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a " Good-morning," To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning. She shook her head — " The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger ; The dog is happy at my knee, The cat purrs at my finger. " But he — to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance : He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence. "They say love gives as well as takes ; But I 'm a simple maiden, — My mother's first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. " I only know my mother's love, Which gives all and asks nothing ; AMY'S CRUELTY. 69 And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing. " Unless he gives me all in 'change, I forfeit all things by him ; The risk is terrible and strange ; I tremble, doubt— deny him, " His sweetest friend, or hardest foe, Best angel, or worst devil, I either hate — or love him so, I can't be merely civil ! " Such love 's a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment's pretty pastime ; /give — all me, if anything, The first time, and the last time. " Dear neighbour of the trellised house ! A man should murmur never. Though treated worse than dog or mouse, Till doated on for ever," A FALSE STEP. Mrs Browning. WEET, thou hast trod on a heart. Pass ! there 's a world full of men, And women as fair as thou art Must do such things now and then. Thou only hast stepped unaware, — Malice, not one can impute ; And why should a heart have been there In the way of a fair woman's foot ? It was not a stone that could trip, Nor was it a thorn that could rend : Put up thy proud underlip ! 'Twas merely the heart of a friend. A FALSE STEP. 71 And yet peradventure one day, Thou, sitting alone at the glass, Remarking the bloom gone away, Where the smile in its dimplement was, And seeking around thee in vain From hundreds who flattered before Such a word as, " Oh, not in the main Do I hold thee less precious, but more ! "' Thou 'It sigh, very like, on thy part, " Of all I have known or can know, I wish I had only that heart I trod upon ages ago ! " ^— ^:^^ A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. Mrs Browning. <50VE me, sweet, with all thou art, Feeling, thinking, seeing; Love me in the lightest part, Love me in full being. Love me with thine open youth In its frank surrender; With the vowing of thy mouth, With its silence tender. Love me with thine azure eyes, Made for earnest granting ; Taking colour from the skies, Can Heaven's truth be wanting? A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 73 Love me with their lids that fall Snow-like at first meeting ; Love me with thine heart, that all Neighbours then see beating. Love me with thine hand stretched out Freely — open-minded : Love me with thy loitering foot — Hearing one behind it. Love me with thy voice, that turns Sudden faint above me ; Love me with thy blush that burns When I murmur, Love me/ Love me with thy thinking soul Break it to love-sighing ; Love me with thy thoughts that roll On through living — dying. Love me in thy gorgeous airs, When the world has crowned thee ; 74 A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. Love me kneeling at thy prayers, With the angels round thee. Love me pure, as musers do, Up the woodlands shady ; Love me gaily, fast and true, As a winsome lady. Through all hopes that keep us brave, Further off or nigher; Love me for the house and grave, And for something higher. Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear, Woman's love no fable, I will love thee — half a year — As a man is able. ^^^ ON FAME. Lord Byron. H, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet tvvo-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. AVhat are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? O Fame ! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 76 ON FAME. Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee — there only I found thee ; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee : When its spark led o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. ODE TO TOBACCO. C. S. C, HOU who, when fears attack, Bidd'st them avaunt, and black Care, at the horseman's back Perching, unseatest ; Sweet when the morn is grey \ Sweet when they 've cleared away Lunch ; and at close of day Possibly sweetest : I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told Not to thy credit ; 78 ODE TO TOBACCO. How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost — Useless, except to roast — Doctors have said it. How they who use fuzees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards ; Go mad, and beat their wives ; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks ! Yet I know five or six Smokers, who freely mix Still with their neighbours ; Jones (who, I 'm glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs J.) Daily absorbs a clay After his labours. I ODE TO TOBACCO. 79 Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken ? We 're not as tabbies are : Smith, take a fresh cigar ! Jones, the tobacco-jar ! Here 's to thee, Bacon ! SORACTE. \^Exiract from translation by C. S. C] Horace. SK not what future suns shall bring, Count to-day gain, whate'er it chance To be ; nor, young man, scorn the dance, Nor deem sweet love an idle thing. Ere Time thy April youth hath changed To sourness. Park and public walk Attract thee now, and whispered talk At twilight meetings pre-arranged; Hear now the pretty laugh that tells In what dim corner lurks thy love; And snatch a bracelet or a glove From wrist or hand that scarce rebels. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY. \Extract^ C. S. C. RE the morn the east has crimsoned, When the stars are twinkling there (As they did in Watt's Hymns, and Made him wonder what they were), When the forest nymphs are beading Fern and flower with silvery dew — My infallible proceeding Is to wake and think of you. When the hunter's ringing bugle Sounds farewell to field and copse, And I sit before my frugal Meal of gravy-soup and chops ; 82 ON THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY. When (as Gray remarks) " the mopuig Owl doth to the moon complain," And the hour suggests eloping — Fly my thoughts to you again. . • • • • Give me hope, the least, the dimmest, Ere I drain the poisoned cup ; Tell me I may tell the chymist Not to make that arsenic up ! Else, this heart shall soon cease throbbhig ; And when, musing o'er my bones, Travellers ask, " Who killed Cock Robin ? " They '11 be told, " Miss Sarah J s." TN THE GLOAMING. c. s. c. CR^N the gloaming to be roaming, where the crested q) U waves are foaming, And the sly mermaidens combing locks that ripple to their feet ; What the gloaming is, I never made the ghost of an endeavour [be sweet. To discover — but whatever were the hour, it would " To their feet," I say; for Leech's sketch indisputably teaches [ugly tails, That the mermaids of our beaches do not end in Nor have homes among the corals; but are shod with neat balmorals. An arrangement no one quarrels with, as many might with scales. 84 IN THE GLOAMING. Sweet to roam beneath a shady diff of course with some young lady, Lalage, Nesera, Kaidee, or Elaine, or Mary Ann : Love, you dear delusive dream you ! very sweet your victims deem you, When, heard only by the seamew, they talk all the stuff they can. Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton the glover. Having managed to discover what is dear Neaera's size ; P'raps to touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender, And to read you 're no offender in those laughing hazel eyes. Then to hear her call you " Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry, O young man about to marry ! what a blessed thing it is ! IN THE GLOAMING. 85 To be photographed together — cased in pretty Russia leather — Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz ! Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring — a rich and rare one — Next a bracelet, if she 'U wear one, and a heap of things beside ; And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore her To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride? Then, the days of courtship over, with your wife to start for Dover Or Dieppe — and live in clover evermore, whate'er befalls : For I 've read in many a novel that, unless they 've souls that grovel. Folks prefer, in fact, a hovel to your dreary marble halls. UNDER THE TREES. C. S. C. )NDER the trees !" who but agrees That there is magic in words such as these? Promptly one sees shake in the breeze Stately lime avenues haunted of bees : Where, looking far over buttercupped leas, Lads and " fair shes " (that is Byron's, and he 's An authority) lie very much at their ease ; Taking their teas, or their duck and green peas, Or, if they prefer it, their plain bread and cheese : Not objecting at all, though its rather a squeeze, And the glass is, I daresay, at eighty degrees. Some get up glees, and are mad about Ries, And Sainton, and Tamberlik's thrilling high C's ; UNDER THE TREES. 87 Or, if painter, hold forth upon Hunt and MacHse, And the breadth of that landscape of Lee's ; Or, if learned, on nodes and the moon's apogees, Or, if serious, on something of A. K. H. B.'s, Or the latest attempt to convert the Chaldees ; Or, in short, about all things, from earthquakes to fleas. Some sit in twos or (less frequently) threes, With their innocent lambswool or book on their knees, And talk and enact any nonsense you please. As they gaze into eyes that are blue as the seas ; And you hear an occasional, " Harry, don't tease," From the sweetest of lips in the softest of keys, And other remarks, which to me are Chinese. And fast the time flees, till a lady-like sneeze. Or a portly papa's more elaborate wheeze. Makes Miss Tabitha seize on her brown muffatees, And announce as a fact that it's going to freeze, And that young people ought to attend to their P's And their Q's, and not court every form of disease; Then Tommy eats up the three last ratifias, 88 UNDER THE TREES. And pretty Louise wraps her 7-obe de cerise Round a bosom as tender as Widow Machree's, And (in spite of the pleas of her lorn vis-a-vis) Goes and wraps up her uncle — a patient of Skey's, Who is prone to catch chills, like all old Bengalese :- But at bedtime I trust he '11 remember to grease The bridge of his nose, and preserve his rupees From the premature clutch of his fond legatees; Or at least have no fees to pay any M.D.'s For the cold his niece caught sitting under the trees. THE ROMANCE OE A GLOVE. H. Saville Clarke. ERE on my desk it lies, Here as the daylight dies, One small glove just her size — Six and a quarter ; Pearl-gray, a colour neat. Deux boiitons all complete, Faint-scented, soft and sweet ; Could glove be smarter ? Can I the day forget. Years ago, when the pet Gave it me ? — where we met Still I remember ; 90 ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. Then 'twas the summer-time ; o\v as I write this rhyme Children love pantomime— 'Tis in December. Fancy my boyish bliss Then when she gave me this, And how the frequent kiss Crumpled its fingers ; Then she was fair and kind, Now, when I 've changed my mind, Still some scent undefined On the glove lingers. Though she 's a matron sage, Yet I have kept the gage ; While, as I pen this page, Still comes a goddess. Her eldest daughter, fair, With the same eyes and hair : Happy the arm, I swear, That clasps her boddice. ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 91 Heaven grant her fate be bright, And her step ever light As it will be to-night, First in the dances. Why did her mother prove False when I dared to love ? Zounds ! I shall burn the glove ! This my romance is. KENSINGTON. Arthur H. Clough. N grass, on giavel, in the sun, Or now beneath the shade, They went, in pleasant Kensington, A prentice and a maid. That Sunday morning's April glow, How should it not impart A stir about the veins that flow To feed the youthful heart? Ah ! years may come, and years may bring The truth that is not bliss, But will they bring another thing That can compare with this ? I read it in that arm she lays So soft on his ; her mien. KENSINGTON. 93 Her step, her very gown betrays (What in her eyes were seen) That not in vain the young buds round, The cawing birds above, The air, the incense of the ground. Are whispering, breathing love. Oh, odours of new-budding rose, Oh, hly's chaste perfume, Oh, fragrance that didst first unclose The young creation's bloom ! Ye hang around me, while in sun Anon, and now in shade, I watched in pleasant Kensington The prentice and the maid. Ah ! years may come, and years may bring The truth that is not bliss, But will they bring another thing That will compare with this ? GOING WITH THE STREAM. \^Extract.'\ Arthur H. Clough. PON the water in a boat I sit and sketch, as there we float, The scene is fair, the stream is strong, I sketch it as we float along. The stream is strong, and as I sit And view the picture that we quit, It flows, and flows, and bears the boat, And I sit sketching as we float. Still as we go, the things I see, E'en as I see them, cease to be. The angles shift, and with the boat The whole perspective seems to float. GOING WITH THE STREAM. 95 Yet still I look, and still I sit Adjusting, shaping, altering it ; And still, the current bears the boat, And me, still sketching as I float. THE EXCHANGE. Samuel T. Coleridge. )E pledged our hearts, my love and I,- I in my arms the maiden clasping : I could not tell the reason why, But oh ! I trembled like an aspen. Her father's love she bade me gain ; I went, and shook like any reed ! I strove to act the man — in vain ! We had exchanged our hearts indeed. A SUMMER SONG. Mortimer Collins. UMMER is sweet, ay! summer is sweet, — Minna mine with the brown, brown eyes: Red are the roses under his feet, Clear the bkie of his windless skies. Pleasant it is in a boat to glide On a river whose ripples to ocean haste, With indolent fingers fretting the tide, And an indolent arm round a darling waist — And to see, as the western purple dies, Hesper mirrored in brown, brown eyes. Summer is fleet, ah ! summer is fleet, — Minna mine with the brown, brown eyes G 98 SUMMER SONG. Onward travel his flying feet, And the mystical colours of autumn rise. Clouds will gather round evening star — Sorrow may silence our first gay rhyme, — The river's swift ripples flow tardier far Than the golden minutes of love's sweet time But to me, whom omnipotent love makes wise, There's endless summer in brown, brown eyes. MV OLD COAT. Mortimer Collins. )HIS old velvet coat has grown queer, I admit, ^^•'''' And changed is the colour and loose is the fit ; Though to beauty it certainly cannot aspire, 'Tis a cozy old coat for a seat by the fire. II. When I first put it on, it was awfully swell; I went to a picnic, met Lucy Lepel, Made a hole in the heart of that sweet little girl, And disjointed the nose of her lover, the earl. III. We rambled away o'er the moorland together ; My coat was bright purple, and so was the heather, And so was the sunset that blazed in the west, As Lucy's fair tresses were laid on my breast. loo MY OLD COAT. IV. We plighted our troth 'neath that sunset aflame, But Lucy returned to her earl all the same ; She's a grandmamma now, and is going down-hill, But my old velvet coat is a friend to me still. V. It was built by a tailor cf mighty renown, Whose art is no longer the talk of the town : A magical picture my memory weaves When I thrust my tired arms through its easy old sleeves. VI. I see in my fire, through the smoke of my pipe, Sweet maidens of old that are long over-ripe. And a troop of old cronies, right gay cavaliers, Whose guineas paid well for champagne at Watier's. VII. A strong generation, who drank, fought, and kissed, Whosehands never trembled, whose shots never missed, Who lived a quick life, for their pulses beat high — We remember them well, sir, my old coat and I. MY OLD CO A T. lOI VIII. Ah, gone is the age of wild doings at court, Rotten boroughs, knee-breeches, hair-triggers, and port; Still I 've got a magnum to moisten my throat, And I '11 drink to the past in my tattered old coat. THE BEST THING SAID TO-NIGHT. Mortimer Collins. ^ 'ROUND the fire, past midnight, when the girls //sAV Were sleeping, let us hope, their beauty-sleep In nests of delicate fragrance, there remained Just two or three to smoke that last cigar And taste the sweet o' the night. Quoth one of us, Knocking the white ash indolently off, Lest it should fall upon his lounging coat Like sudden snow upon a purple moor, " What 7C'as the best thing said to-7iight?" A flow Of talk succeeded : one man's epigram, Another's pretty speech to Isabel, The wild young poet's lyric oratory Half-way 'twixt the Agora and Colney Hatch, The impromptu in the style of Vivian Grey THE BEST THING SAID TO-NIGIIT. 103 About Disradi — these and fifty more The men discussed until discussion yawned And the last seltzer quenched the last cigar, And everybody went to bed. But I, I knew full well the best thing said that night, When she who wore the buds of cyclamen Stood in the odorous twilight 'mid the flowers, While a caressing spray of some white bloom Over her rose-flushed shoulder fell. I knew, And wrote it down on a Vitellian* leaf — A little tablet for love's lusive rhyme. Who will, may read. O darling eyelids' delicate droop ! O little sweet mouth, so red, so pure ! There in the twilight while I stoop, Beautiful Amoret looks demure. There 's a word to whisper : who can guess ? Will it be No, sweet ? will it be Yes ? '1 * " Non duin legerit hos licet puella, Novit quid cupiant Vitelliani." I04 THE BEST THING SAID TO-NIGHT. II. Ivisten the flowers that word to learn Which the little sweet mouth must say to me ; Faintly it flutters the fairy fern : What will it be ? O what will it be ? Tender the gleam in those eyes of light As she says the best thing said to-night. A GAME OF CHESS. Mortimer Collins. ERRACE and lawn are white with frost, Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes- A mocking dream of summer, lost 'Mid winter's icy chains. II. White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam. Veiled by a flickering flame of blue : I see my love as in a dream — Her eyes are azure, too. III. She binds her hair behind her ears (Each little ear so like a shell). Touches her ivory Queen, and fears She is not playing well. io6 A GAME OF CHESS. IV. For me, 1 think of nothing less : I think how those pure pearls become her- And which is sweetest, winter chess Or garden strolls in summer. V. O linger, frost, upon the pane ! O faint blue flame, still softly rise ! O dear one, thus with me remain, That I may watch thine eyes ! AB CHLOEN, MA., Fresh from her Cambridge Examination. Mortimer CollixNs. ^pADY, very fair are you, jV And your eyes are very blue,- — And your hose ; — And your brow is like the snow, And the various things you know Goodness knows. And the rose-flush on your cheek, And your Algebra and Greek Perfect are ; And that loving lustrous eye Recognises in the sky Every star. loS AD CHLOEN, M.A. You have pouting piquant lips, You can doubtless an eclipse Calculate ; But for your cerulean hue I had certainly from you Met my fate. If by an arrangement dual I were Adams mixed with Whewell, Then some day I, as wooer, perhaps might come To so sweet an Artium Magistra. CHLOE, M.A., Ad amantem swim. Mortimer Collins. ARELESS rhymer ! it is true That my favourite colour's blue But am I To be made a victim, sir, If to puddings I prefer Cambridge tt? If with giddier girls I play Croquet through the summer day On the turf, Then at night ('tis no great boon) Let me study how the moon Sways the surf. no CHLOE, M.A. Tennyson's idyllic verse Surely suits me none the worse If I seek Old Sicilian birds and bees — Music of sweet Sophocles — Golden Greek. You have said my eyes are blue ; There may be a fairer hue, Perhaps, — and yet It is surely not a sin If I keep my secrets in Violet. AIY OLD ARM-CHAIR. \Extract^ Barry Cornwall. pET poets coin their golden dreams ; Let lovers weave their vernal themes ; And paint the earth all fair. To me no such bright fancies throng : I sing a humble hearthstone song, Of thee, — my old arm-chair ! Poor — faded — ragged — crazy — old, — Thou'rt yet worth thrice thy weight in gold; Ay ! though thy back be bare : For thou hast held a world of worth, A load of heavenly human earth, — My old arm-chair ! 112 MV OLD ARM-CHAIR. Here sate — ah ! many a jear ago, When, young, I nothing cared to know Of hfe or its great aim, — Friends (gentle hearts) who smiled and shed Brief sunshine on my boyish head : At last the wild clouds came, — And vain desires, and hopes dismayed, And fears that cast the earth in shade, My heart did fret ; And dreaming wonders, foul and fair ; And who then filled mine ancient chair, I now forget. Then Love came — Love ! — without his wings, Low murmuring here a thousand things Of one I once thought fair ; 'Tvvas here he laughed, and bound my eyes, Taking me, boy, by sweet surprise. Here, — in my own arm-chair. Jl/V OLD ARM-CHAIR. 113 How I escaped from that soft pain, And (nothing lessoned) fell again Into another snare, And how again Fate set me free, Are secrets 'tween my soul and me, — ]\Ie, and my old arm-chair. Years fade : — Old Time doth all he can : The soft youth hardens into man; The vapour Fame Dissolves : Care's scars indent our brow- Friends fail us in our need : — but thou Art still the same. ''PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE r Thomas Hood, Sen. 'LL tell you a story that 's not in Tom Moore : ^^ Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door : So he called upon Lucy— 'twas just ten o'clock — Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at, Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-\.dX : So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more Had questioned the stranger and answered the door. "PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE!' 159 The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe; For the moment will come when such comers must go. So she kissed him, and whispered — poor innocent thing — " The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring." ,4 <,D=C '^ THE TIME OF ROSES. Thomas Hood, Sen. CR^T was not in the winter qIu Our loving lot was cast ; It was the time of roses, — We plucked them as we passed. That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet : Oh, no ! the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met ! 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses, — We plucked them as we passed. THE TIME OF ROSES. I6l What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud ? And when I asked the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud ; And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last. It was the time of roses, — We plucked them as we passed. G RETCH EN. A Leaf from an Artist's Sketch-Book. Thomas Hood, Jun. RETCH EN comes from over the sea, From the land where clusters purple the vine On the sunny slopes that rise from the Rhine, As blue as my Gretchen's e'e ! Down by the ocean's brim we met, In a bay embosomed in gleaming sand. With a headland stark upon either hand, While the sun before us set. Golden light upon golden locks, By pools of emerald broidered with pearl, GR ETC HEN. 163 Where the waters broke with a sweep and swirl, To whisper amid the rocks. I drew her face in my treasure book — Artists have licenses ; this is one ! — As she stood in the hght of the sinking sun ; And here it is : — you may look ! She went east — and I went west ; But I bear her image wherever I go. One is here in my sketch-book, lo ! Another within my breast. LITTLE FAN. Thomas Hood, Jun. UR Fan is a fairy, as funny as Puck, In all sorts of innocent mischief for ever. We think she 's a changeling ;— but ah ! by good luck, She 's not ugly and crafty, but pretty and clever ! Go search through all elfdom, and find if you can A fay half as fair as our frolicsome Fan. She has opened the door for the magpie, you see ; And Mag has set out on a mission of plunder ! Miss Mischief !— 'twas sympathy set the bird free. You deserve it— yet ah ! who could chide you, I wonder? LITTLE FAN. I6S Why, a touch spoils a butterfly's wing; — not my plan ; Though I fear that I'm spoiling you, frolicsome Fan! ALL IN THE DOWNS. Thomas Hood, Jun. " Had I a little son, I would christen him ' Nothing-to-do.'" Charlks Lamb. QCp WOULD I had sometliing to do — or to think ! ]^ Or something to read, or to write ! I am rapidly verging on huiacy's brink, Or I shall be dead before night. In my ears has been ringing and droning all day. Without ever a stop or a change, That poem of Tennyson's— heart-cheering lay ! — Of the moated monotonous Grange ! ALL IN THE DOWNS- 167 The stripes in the carpet and paper aUke I have counted, and counted all through, And now I 've a fervid ambition to strike Out some path of wild pleasure that 's new. They say, if a number you count, and recount. That the time imperceptibly goes, — Ah! I wish— how I wish !— I'd ne'er learnt the amount Of my aggregate fingers and toes. " Enjoyment is fleeting," the proverbs all say, " Even that which it feeds upon fails." I 've arrived at the truth of the saying to-day, By devouring the whole of my nails. I have numbered the minutes so heavy and slow, Till of that dissipation I tire. And as for exciting amusements, — you know One can't always be stirring the fire. THE BRA CELET. {From Abroad.) Thomas Hood, Jun. -^AKE, dearest one, this golden band, ^' >■ And clasp it round thine arm for me — Who fain would link with mine own hand This token of my life to thee. Oh, may thy pulse beneath it beat One measured rhythm with thy heart, Beat quick with joy, love, when we meet- And only slowly when we part. And may thy moments, free from pain, And full of joy, pass calmly by — Links, dearest, of a silver chain, — Beads, in a golden rosary ! t^« R O ND E AU. Leigh Hunt. 'ENNY kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in ; Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your hst, put that in : Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad, Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I 'm growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me 1 A LO VE-LESSON. Leigh Hunt. SWEET " No, no," — with a sweet smile beneath, Becomes an honest girl ; I 'd have you learn it :— As for plain " Yes," it may be said i' faith, Too plainly and too oft : — pray, well discern it — Not that I 'd have my pleasure incomplete, Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you ; But that in suffering me to take it. Sweet, I 'd have you say, " No, no, I will not let you." LOVE AND AGE. Leigh Hunt. HEN young, I loved. At that enchanting So sweet, so short, love was my sole delight ; And when I reached the time for being sage, Still I loved on, for reason gave me right. Snows come at length, and liveUer joys depart. Yet gentle ones still kiss these eyelids dim ; For still I love, and love consoles my heart ; What could console me for the loss of Him 1 LETTICE WHITE. Jean Ingelow. ^^'^Y neiglibour White ; we met to-day, yjiL[((p He always had a cheerful way, As if he breathed at ease ; My neighbour White Uves down the glade, And I live higher, in the shade Of my old walnut-trees. So many lads and lasses small, To feed them all, to clothe them all, Must surely tax his wit ; I see his thatch when I look out, His branching roses creep about And vines half smother it. LETTICE WHITE. 173 There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, And httle watch-fires heap with leaves, And milky filberts hoard ; And there his oldest daughter stands With downcast eyes and skilful hands Before her ironing-board. She comforts all her mother's days, And with her sweet obedient ways She makes her labours light ; So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! Oh, she is much too good for me, That lovely Lettice White ! 'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool ! With that same lass I went to school; I then was great and wise ; She read upon an easier book, And I, — I never cared to look Into her shy blue eyes. 174 LETTICE WHITE, And now I know they must be there, Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair That will not raise their rim : If maids be shy, he cures who can, But if a man be shy — a man — Why then, the worse for him ! My mother cries, "For such a lad A wife is easy to be had And always to be found ; A finer scholar scarce can be, And for a foot and leg," says she, " He beats the country round !" " My handsome boy must stoop his head To clear her door whom he Avould wed." Weak praise, but fondly sung ! " O mother ! scholars sometimes fail, — And what can foot and leg avail To him that wants a tongue ! " LETTICE WHITE. 175 When by her ironing-board I sit Her little sisters round me flit, And bring me forth their store ; Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, And small sweet apples bright of hue, And crimson to the core. But she abideth silent, fair, All shaded by her flaxen hair. The blushes come and go ; I look, and I no more can speak Than the red sun that on her cheek Smiles as he lieth low. Sometimes the roses by the latch Or scarlet vine leaves from her thatch Come sailing down like birds ; When from their drifts her board I clear, She thanks me, but I scarce can hear The shyly uttered words. 176 LETTICE WHITE. Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White By daylight and by candleHght When we two were apart. Some better day come on apace, And let me tell her face to face, " Maiden, thou hast my heart ! " How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored ! She sees them all, sweet Lettice White ; I'll e'en go sit again to-night Beside her ironing-board. THE POPLAR. Thomas Ingoldsby. ^Y, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so //t^\! stately, On whose tender rind — 'twas a little one then — Wc carved her initials ; though not very lately — We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana, Our heart's empress then ; see, 'tis grown all askew ; And it 's not without grief we perforce entertain a Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q. M 178 THE POPLAR. This should be the great Z>, too, that once stood for Dobbin, Her loved patronymic — ah ! can it be so ? Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing A D .?— we '11 be Deed if it isn't an O ! Alas ! how the soul sentimental it vexes, That thus on our labours stern Chronos should frown, Should change our soft liquids to izzards and X'es, And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down !* * Reprinted from " Ingoldsby Legends," by permission of Messrs Richard Bentley & Son. SING HEIGH-HO/ Rev. Charles Kingsley. ^HERE sits a bird on every tree, Sing heigh-ho ! There sits a bird on every tree, And courts his love, as I do thee ; Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! Young maids must marry. — There grows a flower on every bough, Sing heigh-ho ! There grows a flower on every bough, Its petals kiss — I '11 show you how : Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! Young maids must marry. i8o SING HEIGH-HO! From sea to stream the salmon roam : Sing heigh-ho ! From sea to stream the salmon roam ; Each finds a mate, and leads her home ; Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! Young maids must marry. The sun 's a bridegroom, earth a bride Sing heigh-ho ! They court from morn till eventide : The earth shall pass, but love abide ; Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! Young maids must marry. THE EFFECTS OF AGE. Walter Savage Landor. 3|(^ES, I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talked of by young men As rather clever. In their last quarter are my eyes, You see it by their form and size, Is it not time, then, to be wise ? — Or now, or never. Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! While time allows the short reprieve Just look at me ! Could you believe 'Twas once a lover ? i82 THE EFFECTS OF AGE. I cannot clear the five-barred gate, But trying first its timber's state, Climb stifily up, take breath and wait. To trundle over. Through galopade I cannot swing Th' entangling blooms of beauty's spring ; I cannot say the tender thing. Be 't true or false. And am beginning to opine Those girls are only half divine Whose waists you wicked boys entwine In giddy waltz. I fear that arm above that shoulder, I wish them wiser, graver, older, Sedater, and no harm if colder, And panting less. Ah ! people were not half so wild In former days, when, starchly mild, Upon her high-heeled Essex smiled The brave Queen Bess. THE PORTRAIT- PAINTER. Walter Savage Landor. THOU whose happy pencil strays Where I am called, nor dare to gaze, But lower my eye and check my tongue, Oh, if thou valuest peaceful days, Pursue the ringlet's sunny maze, And dwell not on those lips too long. What mists athwart my temples fly, Now, touch by touch, thy fingers tie With torturing care her graceful zone ! For all that sparkles from her eye I could not look while thou art by. Nor could I cease were I alone. HIGH AND DRY. Walter Savage Landor. )HE vessel that rests here at last Had once stout ribs and topping mast, And, whate'er wind there might prevail, Was ready for a row or sail ; It now lies idle on its side, Forgetful o'er the stream to glide. And yet there have been days of yore When pretty maids their posies bore To crown its prow, its deck to trim, And freighted a whole world of whiin. A thousand stories it could tell, But it loves secrecy too well. Come closer, my sweet girl, pray do ! . . , There may be still one left for you. C MM IN A TIO N. Walter Savage Landor. AKING my walk the other day, I saw a little girl at play, So pretty, 'twould not be amiss, Thought I, to venture on a kiss. Fiercely the little girl began — ^'- 1 7vondcr at you, nasty man /" And all four fingers were applied, And crimson pinafore beside, To wipe what venom might remain, — " Do if you dare /he like again ; I have a mind to teach you better" And I too had a mind to let her. NO LONGER JEALOUS. Walter Savage Landor. (J^p REMEMBER the time ere his temples were grey, J ^ And I frowned at the things he 'd the boldness to say ; But now he 's grown old, he may say what he will, I laugh at his nonsense and take nothing ill. Indeed I must say he 's a little improved, For he watches no longer the ' slily beloved,' No longer as once he awakens my fears, Not a glance he perceives, not a whisper he hears. If he heard one of late, it has never transpired, For his only delight is to see me admired; And now pray what better return can I make, Than to flirt and be always admired — for his sake. DEFIANCE. Walter Savage Landor. ATCH her and hold her if you can ! See, she defies you with her fan, Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread In threat'ning guise above your head. Ah ! why did you not start before She reached the porch and closed the door ? Simpleton ! will you never learn That girls and time will not return ; Of each you should have made the most, Once gone, they are for ever lost. In vain your knuckles knock your brow, In vain will you remember how Like a slim brook the gamesome maid Sparkled, and ran into the shade. THERE'S A TIME TO BE JOLLY. Charles G. Leland {Hans Breitmann). f HERE'S a time to be jolly, a time to repent, A season for folly, a season for Lent, The first as the worst we too often regard ; The rest as the best, but our judgment is hard. There are snows in December and roses in June, There 's darkness at midnight and sunshine at noon ; But, were there no sorrow, no storm-cloud or rain, Who 'd care for the morrow with beauty again. The world is a picture both gloomy and bright, And grief is the shadow and pleasure the light. And neither should smother the general tone : For where were the other if either were gone? THERE'S A TIME TO BE JOLLY. 189 The valley is lovely ; the mountain is drear, Its summit is hidden in mist all the year ; But gaze from the heaven, high over all weather, And mountain and valley are lovely together. I have learned to love Lucy, though faded she be ; If my next love be lovely, the better for me. By the end of next summer, I '11 give you my oath. It was best, after all, to have flirted with both. WHA T MIGHT HA VE BEEN. Henry S. Leigh. I N the twilight of November's Afternoons I like to sit, Finding fancies in the embers Long before my lamp is lit ; Calling memory up, and linking Bygone days to distant scene ; Then, with feet on fender, thinking Of the things that might have been. Cradles, wedding-rings, and hatchments Glow alternate in the fire ; Early loves, and late attachments Blaze a second, — and expire. WHA T MIGHT HA VE BEEN. 191 With a moderate persistence One may soon contrive to glean Matters for a mock existence From the things that might have been. Handsome, amiable, and clever — With a fortune and a wife : — So I make my start whenever I would build the fancy life. After all the bright ideal, What a gulf there is between Things that are, alas ! too real, And the things that might have been ! Often thus, alone and moody. Do I act my little play — Like a ghostly Punch and Judy, Where the dolls are grave and gay 3 — Till my lamplight comes and flashes On the phantoms I have seen, Leaving nothing but the ashes Of the things that might have been. A CLUMSY SERVANT. Henry S. Leigh. NATURE, Nature, you're enough To put a Quaker in a huff, Or make a martyr grumble ! Whenever something rich and rare — On earth — at sea — or in the air — Is placed in your especial care, You always let it tumble. You don't, like other folks, confine Your fractures to the hardware line, And break the trifles i/icy break ; But, scorning anything so small. You take our nights and let them fall, And in the morning, worst of all, You go and let the day break ! A CLUMSY SERVANT. 193 You drop the rains of early spring (That set the wide world blossoming), The golden beams that mellow Our grain toward the harvest prime ; You drop, too, in the autumn-time, With breathings from a colder clime, The dead leaf, sere and yellow. You drop and drop ; — without a doubt You '11 go on dropping things about, Through still and stormy weather, Until a day when you shall find You feel aweary of mankind. And end by making up your mind To drop us altogether. N A BEGGING LETTER. Henry S. Leigh. ^^^vf^Y DEAR To-morrow, I can think "^ Of little else to do, And so I take my pen and ink And drop a line to you. I own tliat I am ill at ease Respecting you to-day ; Do let me have an answer, please ; Repondez, s'il vous plait. I long to like you very much, But that will all depend On whether you "behave as such" (I mean, dear, as a friend). A BEGGING LETTER. 195 I '11 set you quite an easy task At which you are mi fait; You'll come and bring me what I ask? Re'pondez, s'il vous plait. Be sure to recollect your purse, For, be it understood. Though money-matters might be worse, They're very far from good. So, if you have a little gold You care to give away But am I growing over-bold ? Repondez, s'il vous plait. A little— just a little — fame You must contrive to bring ; Because I think a poet's name Would be a pleasant thing. Perhaps, though, as I 've scarcely got A single claim to lay To such a gift, you 'd rather not ; Repondez, s'il vous plait. 196 A BEGGING LETTER. Well, well, To-morrow, you may strike A line through what 's above : And bring me folks that I can like, And folks that I can love. A warmer heart ; a quicker brain, I '11 ask for, if I may : To-morrow, shall I ask in vain? Re'pondez, s'il vous plait. jmy love and my heart. Henry S. Leigh. H, the days were ever shiny When I ran to meet my love ; When I pressed her hand so tiny Through her tiny, tiny glove. Was I very deeply smitten ? Oh, I loved like anything! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart 's a ball of string. She was pleasingly poetic, And she loved my little rhymes ; For our tastes were sympathetic, In the old and happy times. 1 98 MY LOVE AND MY HEART. Oh, the ballads I have written, And have taught my love to sing ! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart 's a ball of string. Would she listen to my offer, On my knees I would impart A sincere and ready proffer Of my hand and of my heart. And below her dainty mitten I would fix a wedding-ring ; But my love she is a kitten, And my heart 's a ball of string. Take a warning, happy lover, From the moral that I show ; Or too late you may discover What I learned a month ago, We are scratched or we are bitten By the pets to whom we cling, — Oh, my love she is a kitten, And my heart 's a ball of string. MY PARTNER. Henry S. Leigh. )ULL often at my cosy club I take my claret and my joint, And then essay a friendly rub At silver threepennies the point. My partner is a ghastly man, With awful knowledge of the game j And — play as deftly as I can — He treats my efforts all the same. I lead a trump, no matter why — We lose the trick, no matter how ; I feel the fury of his eye. And see the scowl upon his brow. 200 MY PARTNER. I give a shrug, as if to say, 'Twas purely an affair of chance ; He coughs in quite a quiet way — But, oh, the hghtning of his glance ! Perchance I play a lively king, When swiftly on the monarch's face (Before I dream of such a thing) My bold opponent puts an ace. The luck is theirs, and such a tide Is quite impossible to stem ; My partner turns his head aside, And mournfully observes, *' Ahem ! " At length I gradually lose All sense of what we are about ; With little time to pick or choose, I play a card when twelve are out. I know it 's utterly absurd. And frankly feel we cannot win ; My partner never says a word. But kicks me hard upon the shin. A/y PARTNER. 201 What matters that ? One httle graze Will only last a week or so ; And what are six or seven days Of poulticing to undergo? But, when I wildly dash away, More desperately than before. My partner swears he '11 never play With such an idiot any more. NOT A MA TCH. Henry S. Leigh. iITTY, sweet and seventeen, Pulls my hair and calls me "Harry;" Hints that I am young and green, Wonders if I wish to marry. Only tell me what reply Is the best reply for Kitty? She 's but seventeen — and / — I am forty — more 's the pity. Twice at least my Kitty's age (Just a trifle over, maybe) — I am sober, I am sage ; Kitty nothing but a baby. NOT A MATCH. 203 She is merriment and mirth, I am wise and gravely witty ; She 's the dearest thing on earth, I am forty — more 's the pity. She adores my pretty rhymes, Calls me "poet" when I write them; And she listens oftentimes Half an hour when 1 recite them. Let me scribble by the page Sonnet, ode, or lover's ditty; Seventeen is Kitty's age — I am forty — more 's the pity. TO MY GRANDMOTHER. [Sttggested by a Picture by Mr Romney.l Frederick Locker. 'HIS relative of mine Was she seventy-and-nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen As a bride. Beneath a summer tree Her maiden reverie Has a charm ; Her ringlets are in taste — What an arm ! and what a waist For an arm ! TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 205 With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Lace farthingale, and gay Falbala, — Were Romney's limning true. What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa ! Her lips are sweet as love ; They are parting ! do they move ? Are they dumb ? Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, " Come ! " What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips ! Whisper me, Sweet deity in paint, What canon says I mayn't Marrv thee ? 2o6 TO MY GRANDMOTHER. That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence subUme ! When I first Saw this lady in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst. Her locks (as white as snow) Once shamed the swarthy crow By-and-by, That fowl's avenging sprite Set his cruel foot for spite Near her eye. Her rounded form was lean, And her silk was bambazine : Well I wot With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit, — Would she not ? TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 207 Ah, perishable clay ! Her charms had dropt away- One by one. But if she heaved a sigh With a burthen, it was, " Thy Will be done." In travail, as in tears. With the fardel of her years Overprest, In mercy was she borne Where the weary and the worn Are at rest. I fain would meet you there ; — If, witching as you were, Grandmamma, This nether world agrees That the better you must please Grandpapa. REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR. Frederick Locker. ^ES, you were false, and though I 'm free, I still would be the slave of yore ; Then, joined, our years were thirty-three, And now, — yes, now I 'm thirty-four. And though you were not learned — well, I was not anxious you should grow so ; — I trembled once beneath her spell Whose spelling was extremely so-so ! Bright season ! Why will Memory Still haunt the path our rambles took, — The sparrow's nest that made you cry, The lilies captured in the brook ? RE PL V TO A LETTER. 209 I 'd lifted you from side to side (You seemed as light as that poor sparrow) 3 I know who wished it twice as wide, I think you thought it rather narrow. Time was, indeed a little while. My pony could your heart compel ; And once, beside the meadow-stile, I thought you loved me just as well ; I 'd kissed your cheek ; in sweet surprise Your troubled gaze said plainly, " Should he?" But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes ; — " He could not mean to vex me, could he?" The brightest eyes are soonest sad. But your rose cheek, so lightly swayed, Could ripple into dimples glad ; Yox O, fair friend, what mirth we made ! The brightest tears are soonest dried, But your young love and dole were stable ; o 2IO REPLY TO A LETTER. You wept when dear old Rover died, You wept — and dressed your dolls in sable. As year succeeds to year, the more Imperfect life's fruition seems ; Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, Are not the same enchanting dreams. The girls I love now vote me slow — How dull the boys who once seemed witty ! Perhaps I 'm getting old, I know I 'm still romantic, more 's the pity ! Vain the regret ! to few, perchance, Unknown, and profitless to all ; The wisely-gay, as years advance, Are gaily wise. Whate'er befall, We '11 laugh at folly, whether seen Beneath a chimney or a steeple ; At yours, at mine — our own, I mean, As well as that of other people. I 'm fond of fun, the mental dew Where wit, and truth, and ruth are blent ; REPLY TO A LETTER. 211 And yet I 've known a prig or two, Who, wanting all, were all content ! To say I hate such dismal men Might be esteemed a strong asserton : If I 've blue devils, now and then, I make them dance for my diversion. . . . And here 's your letter de'bonnaire, ' My friend, my dear old friend of yore," And is this curl your daughter's hair? I 've seen the Titian tint before. Are we the pair that used to pass Long days beneath the chestnut shady? Then you were such a pretty lass ! I 'm told you 're now as fair a lady. I 've laughed to hide the tear I shed, As when the jester's bosom swells, Aiid mournfully he shakes his head, We hear the jingle of his bells. 212 REPLY TO A LETTER. A jesting vein your poet vexed, And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine, Without a parson or a text, Has proved a somewhat prosy sermon. MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. Frederick Locker. ^HOUGH walls but thin our hearths divide, We 're strangers dwelling side by side ; How gaily all your days must glide Unvexed by labour ! I 've seen you weep, and could have wept ; I 've heard you sing (and might have slept !) Sometimes I hear your chimney swept, My charming neighbour! Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail The pup, once eloquent of tail ? I wonder why your nightingale Is mute at sunset ! 214 MY NEIGH BO UR ROSE. Your puss, demure and pensive, seems Too fat to mouse. Much she esteems Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams Of mice she once ate. Our tastes agree. I dote upon Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, The Wedding March of Mendelssohn, And Pen serosa. When sorely tempted to purloin Yoyxx pietd of Marc Antoine, Fair virtue doth fair play enjoin, Fair Virtuoso ! At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, And whisper low, " She hides behind ; Thou art not lonely." The tricksy sprite did erst assist At hushed Verona's moonlight tryst; — Sweet Capulet ! thou wert not kissed By light winds only. MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. 2 1 5 I miss the simple days of yore, When two long braids of hair you wore, And Chat bott'e was wondered o'er, In corner cosy. But gaze not back for tales like those : It's all in order, I suppose. The Bud is now a blooming Rose, — A rosy-posy ! Indeed, farewell to bygone years ; How wonderful the change appears ! For curates now, and cavaliers. In turn perplex you : The last are birds of feather gay. Who swear the first are birds of prey ; I 'd scare them all had I my way. But that might vex you. At times I 've envied, it is true. That hero, joyous twenty-two, Who sent bouquets and billets-doux, And wore a sabre. ! 1 6 MY NEIGHBOUR ROSE. The rogue ! how close his arm he wound bout her waist, who never frowned. He loves you, child. Now, is he bound To love viy neighbour ? The bells are ringing. As is meet, White favours fascinate the street, Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet 'Twixt tears and laughter : They crowd the door to see her go, The bliss of one brings many woe ; Oil, kiss the bride, and I will throw The old shoe after. What change in one short afternoon, My own dear neighbour gone, — so soon ! Is yon pale orb her honey-moon Slow rising hither ? Lady ! so wan and marvellous, How often have we communed thus : Sweet memory shall dwell with us, — And joy go with her ! MRS SMITH. Frederick Locker. GT/pAST year I trod these fields with Di, J Mj) Fields fresh with clover and with rye; They now seem arid ! Then Di was fair and single ; how Unfair it seems on me, for now Di's fair — and married ! A blissful swain — I scorned the song Which says that though young Love is strong, The Fates are stronger : Breezes then blew a boon to men, Then butter-cups were bright, and then This grass was longer. 2i8 MRS SMITH. That clay I saw, and much esteemed Di's ankles, which the clover seemed Inclined to smother : It twitched, and soon untied (for fun) The ribbons of her shoes, first one, And then the other. I 'm told that virgins augur some Misfortune if their shoe-strings come To grief on Friday : And so did Di, and so her pride Decreed that shoe-strings so untied Are " so untidy ! " Of course I knelt ; with fingers deft I tied the right, and tied the left : Says Di, " This stubble Is very stupid ! — as I live, I 'm quite ashamed ! — I 'm shocked to give You so much trouble." MUS SMITH. 219 For answer I was fain to sink To what we all would say and think Were Beauty present : *' Don't mention such a simple act — A trouble ? not the least ! — in fact It 's rather pleasant ! " I trust that Love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he 's A graceless rover. She's happy now as Mrs Smith — And less polite when walking with Her chosen lover I Heigh-ho ! although no moral clings To Di's blue eyes, and sandal-strings, We 've had our quarrels !— I think that Smith is thought an ass, I know that when they walk in grass She wears balmorals. MV MISTRESS'S BOOTS. Frederick Locker. HEY nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat : This palpitation means These Boots are Geraldine's — Think of that ! Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet ? You lucky little kid. You perished, so you did, For my sweet ! MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 221 The faery stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes. What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two ! For Gerry 's debonair And innocent, and fair a rose ; She 's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose. 222 MY 3IISTRESS'S BOOTS. The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's. Cinderella's lefts and rights, To Geraldine's were frights ; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod. Has dutifully trod Until now. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don ; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I '11 Put them on. GERTY'S GLO V E. Frederick Locker. " Elle avait au bout de ses maiT-hes Une paire de mains si blanches ! " f^ LIPS of a kid-skin deftly sewn, p > A scent as through her garden blown, The tender hue that clothes her dove, All these, and this is Gerty's glove. A glove but lately dofft, for look — It keeps the happy shape it took Warm from her touch ! What gave the glow?- And Where's the mould that shaped it so? 224 GERTY'S GLOVE. It clasped the hand, so pure, so sleek, Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek, The hand that when the light wind stirs, Reproves those laughing locks of hers. You fingers four, you little thumb ! Were I but you, in days to come I 'd clasp, and kiss, and keep her — go ! And tell her that I told you so. ''GERTY'S NECKLACE." Frederick Locker. ^'^'^S Gerty skipt from babe to girl, V Her necklace lengthened, pearl by pearl; Year after year it grew and grew, For every birthday gave her two. Her neck is lovely, soft, and fair, And now her necklace glimmers there. So cradled, let it sink and rise, And all her graces emblemise ; Perchance this pearl, without a speck, Once was as warm on Sappho's neck ; And where are all the happy pearls That braided Beatrice's curls? 226 GEETY'S NECKLACE. Is Gerty loved ? — is Gerty loth ? Or, if she 's either, is she both ? She 's fancy free, but sweeter far Than many plighted maidens are : Will Gerty smile us all away. And still be Gerty ? Who can say ? But let her wear her precious toy. And I '11 rejoice to see her joy : Her bauble 's only one degree Less frail, less fugitive than we ; For Time, ere long, will snap the skein, And scatter all the pearls again. IV I TH OUT A ND W I THIN. J. Russell Lowell. ^Y coachman, in the moonlight there, jl/k Looks througla the side-light of the door; I hear him with his brethren swear, As I could do, — but only more. Flattening his nose against the pane, He envies me my brilliant lot, Breathes on his aching fist in vain, And dooms me to a place more hot. He sees me into supper go, A silken wonder by my side, Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row Of flounces, for the door too wide 223 WITHOUT AND WITHIN. He thinks how happy is my arm, 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load; And wishes me some dreadful harm, Hearing the merry corks explode. Meanwhile I inly curse the bore Of hunting still the same old coon, And envy him, outside the door, The golden quiet of the moon. The winter wind is not so cold As the bright smile he sees me win, Nor the host's oldest wine so old As our poor gabble, sour and thin. I envy him the rugged prance By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains, and dance, The gailey-slave of dreary forms. WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 229 Oh, could he have my share of din, And I his quiet ! — past a doubt 'Twould still be one man bored within, And just another bored without. ''AUF WIEDERSEHENr ■ \^Extract.'\ J. Russell Lowell. ^^HE little gate was reached at last, >5^/ Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said, " Auf wiedersehen ! " With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again, Half doubting if she did aright. Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, " Auf wiedersehen !" The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; I linger in delicious pain ; AUF WIEDERSEHENI 231 Ah ! in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, '• Auf wiedersehen !" Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seemed too fain. But these — they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart \ She said, " Auf wiedersehen ! " AN EMBER PICTURE. J. Russell Lowell. OW strange are the freaks of memory ! The lessons of Ufe we forget, While a trifle, a trick of colour, In the wonderful web is set, — Set by some mordant of fancy, And, spite of the wear and tear Of time or distance or trouble. Insists on its right to be there. A chance had brought us together ; Our talk was of matters of course ; We were nothing, one to the other, But a short half-hour's resource. AN EMBER PICTURE. Arrived at her door, we left her With a drippingly hurried adieu, And our wheels went crunching the gravel Of the oak-darkened avenue. As we drove away through the shadow, The candle she held at the door From rain-varnished tree- trunk to tree-trunk Flashed fainter, and flashed no more ; — Flashed fainter, then wholly faded Before we had passed the wood ; But the light of the face behind it Went with me and stayed for good. Had she beauty ? Well, not what they call so ; You may find a thousand as fair ; And yet there 's her face in my memory With no special claim to be there. 234 AN EMBER PICTURE. As I sit sometimes in the twilight, And call back to life in the coals Old faces and hopes and fancies Long buried (good rest to their souls !)- Her face shines out in the embers ; I see her holding the light, And hear the crunch of the gravel. And the sweep of the rain that night. 3s5 THE FAIRY'S REPROACH. BULWER LytTON. ^Y the glow-worm's lamp in the dewy brake ; By the gossamer's airy net ; By the shifting skin of the f:iithless snake, Oh, teach me to forget : — For none, ah, none, Can teach so well that human spell, As thou, false one ! By the fairy dance on the greensward smooth; By the winds of the gentle west ; By the loving stars, when their soft looks soothe The waves on their mother's breast; 236 THE FAIRY'S REPROACH. Teach me thy lore, By which, like withered flowers, The leaves of buried hours Blossom no more 1 " By the tent in the violet's bell ; By the may on the scented bough ; By the lone green isle where my sisters dwell ; And thine own forgotten vow ! Teach me to live, Nor feed on thoughts that pine For love so false as thine ! Teach me thy lore, one thou lov'st no more Will bless thee, and forgive.''' * Reprinted from " The Pilgrims of the Rhine," by permission of Messrs George Routledge & Sons. NYDJA'S LOVE-SONG. BULWER LyTTON. HE wind and the beam loved the rose, v),i> An(j t]^g rose loved one ; For Avho recks the wind where it blows? Or loves not the sun ? None knew whence the humble wind stole Poor sport of the skies — None dreamt that the wind had a soul, In its mournful sighs ! O happy beam 1 how canst thou prove That bright love of thine ? In thy light is the proof of thy love, Thou hast but to shine ! 238 NYDIA 'S LOVE-SONG. How its love can the wind reveal? Unwelcome its sigh ; Mute — mute to its rose let it steal- Its proof is — to die ! " * * Reprinted from " The Last Days of Pompeii," by permission of Messrs Georfje Routledge & Sons. A VALENTINE. Lord Macaulav. AIL, clay of music, day of love, On earth below, in air above. In air the turtle fondly moans, The linnet pipes in joyous tones ; On earth the postman toils along, Bent double by huge bales of song, Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye, Blazes all Cupid's heraldry — Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows. Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows. What nymph without wild hopes and fears The double rap this morning hears .f* Unnumbered lasses, young and fair, From Bethnal Green to Belgrave Square, 240 A VALENTINE. With cheeks high flushed, and hearts loud beating, Await the tender annual greeting. The loveliest lass of all is mine — Good-morrow to my Valentine! Good-morrow, gentle child ! and then Again good morrow, and again, Good-morrow following still good-morrow, Without one cloud of strife or sorrow. And when the god to whom we pay In jest our homages to-day Shall come to claim, no more in jest, His rightful empire o'er thy breast. Benignant may his aspect be, His yoke the truest liberty : And if a tear his power confess, Be it a tear of happiness. It shall be so. The ]\Iuse displays The future to her votary's gaze ; Prophetic rage my bosom swells — I taste the cake — I hear the bells ! From Conduit Street the close array Of chariots barricades the way A VALENTINE. 241 To where I see, with outstretched hand, Majestic, thy great kinsman stand, And half unbend his brow of pride, As welcoming so fair a bride. Gay favours, tliick as flakes of snow, Brighten St George's portico : Within I see the chancel's pale, The orange flowers, the Brussels veil, The page on which those fingers Avhite, Still trembling from the awful rite. For the last time sliall faintly trace The name of Stanhope's noble race. I see kind faces round thee pressing, I hear kind voices whisper blessing ; And with those voices mingles mine — All good attend my Valentine ! '^^fefejJ^ LOVE'S REASONING. Charles Mackay. HAT is the meaning of thy song, That rings so clear and loud ; Thou nightingale, amid the copse- Thou lark above the cloud ? What says thy song, thou joyous thrush Up in the walnut-tree ? — " I love my love, because I know My love loves me." What is the meaning of thy thought, O maiden fair and young ? There is such pleasure in thine eyes, Such music on thy tongue : LOVE'S REASONING. 243 There is such glory in thy face, What can the meaning be ? " I love my love, because I know My love loves me ! " TO A FORGET-ME-NOT. [From ike '\Bon Gajillicr Ballads."] Theodore Martin. WEET flower, that with thy soft blue eye Didst once look up in shady spot, To whisper to the passer-by Those tender words — Forget-me-not ! Though withered now, thou art to me The minister of gentle thought, — And I could weep to gaze on thee, Love's faded pledge — Forget me-not. TO A FORGET-ME-NOT. 245 Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, And happiness arose unsought, When she, the whispering woods among, Gave me thy bloom — Forget-me-not ! That rapturous hour with that dear maid From memory's page no time shall blot. When, yielding to my kiss, she said, " O Theodore — Forget me not ! " Alas ! for love, alas ! for truth, Alas ! for man's uncertain lot ! Alas ! for all the hopes of youth, That fade like thee— Forget-me-not ! Alas ! for that one image fair, With all my brightest dreams inwrought, That walks beside me everywhere, Still whispering — Forget me not ! O Memory ! thou art but a sigh For friendships dead and loves forgot ; 246 TO A FORGET-ME-NOT. And many a cold and altered eye, That once did say — Forget me not ! And I must bow me to thy laws, For — odd although it may be thought- I can't tell who the deuce it was That gave nie this Forget-me-not. MADAME LA MARQUISE. Owen Meredith. HE folds of her wine-dark violet dress Glow over the sofa, fall on fall, As she sits in the air of her loveliness, With a smile for each and for all. Half of her exquisite face in the shade Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings ; Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous braid ; In the firelight are sparkling her rings. As she leans, — the slow smile half shut up in her eyes Beams the sleepy, long, silk-soft lashes beneath : Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint replies, Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. 248 MADAME LA MARQUISE. As she leans, — where your eye, by her beauty subdued, Droops — from under warm fringes of broidery white, The sHghtest of feet, silken sHppered, protrude For one moment, then slip out of sight. As I bend o'er her bosom to tell her thfe news, The faint scent of her hair, the approach of her cheek, The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses suffuse With HERSELF ; and I tremble to speak. So she sits in the curtained luxurious light Of that room with its porcelain, and pictures, and flowers, When the dark day's half done, and the snow flutters white Past the windows in feathery showers. All without is so cold, — 'neath the low, leaden sky ! Down the bald empty street, like a ghost, the gendarme Stalks surly ; a distant carriage hums by ; — All within is so bright and so warm ! MADAME LA MARQUISE. 249 But she drives after noon ; — then 's the time to behold her, With her fair face, half hid, like a ripe peeping rose, 'Neath the veil, — o'er the velvets and furs which en- fold her, — Leaning back with a queenly repose. As she glides up the sunlight, you'd say she was • made To loll back in a carriage all day with a smile : And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade Of soft lamps, and be wooed for a while. Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace ! Can it beat without ruffling her sumptuous dress? She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face ; But what the heart 's like, we must guess. With live women and men to be found in the world — (Live with sorrow and sin — live with pain and with passion) — 2;o MADAME LA MARQUISE. Who could live with a doll, though its locks should be curled, And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion? 'Tis so fair ! Would my bite, if I bit it, draw blood ? Will it cry if I hurt it ? or scold if I kiss ? Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? ... Is it worth while to guess at all this ? THE CHESSBOARD. Owen Meredith. EAR little fool ! do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes ? Ah ! still I see your warm white hand Hovering o'er queen and knight ; Brave pawns in valiant battle stand ; The double castles guard the wings ; The bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch ; our glances meet, And falter \ falls your golden hair 252 THE CHESSBOARD. Against my cheek ; your bosom sweet Is heaving. Down the field, your queen Rides slow her soldiery all between, And checks me, unaware. Ah me ! the little battle 's done, Disperst is all its chivalry. Full many a move, since then, have we 'Mid life's perplexing chequers made, And many a game with Fortune played, — What is it u'c have won ? This, this at least — if this alone ; — That never, never, never more. As in those old still nights of yore (Ere we were grown so sadly wise). Can you and I shut out the skies. Shut out the world, and wintry weather. And, eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, Play chess, as then we played, together ! -=S— ^1^4 V— SINCE IVE FARTED. Owen Meredith. INCE we parted y ester eve, I do love thee, love, believe Twelve times dearer, twelve hours longer, One dream deeper, one night stronger, One sun surer, — thus much more Than I loved thee, love, before. THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. Thomas Moore. *HE time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The Hght that lies In Woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, My only books Were Woman's looks, And folly's all they taught me. Her smiles when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, THE TIME I'VE lOST IN WOOING. = 33 Like him, the sprite, Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that 's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me But wliile her eyes were on me ; If once their ray Was turned away. Oh, winds could not outrun me ! And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No, — vain, alas ! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. LOVE A ND REASON. Thomas Moore. r^ HE has beauty, but still you must keep your Y heart cool ; She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so: " Thus Reason advises, but Reason 's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny, 'Tis not the first "lime I have thought so. " She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss fly ; 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season : " Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason, Dear Fanny ? Love reasons much better than Reason. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. Thomas Moore. TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, en- chanted, *' I '11 build in this garden, — the thought is divine ! " Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent ; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. " Oh, never," she cried, " could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim ; But yon little god, upon roses reclining. We '11 make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him." R 258 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. So the bargain was struck : with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: " Farewell," said the sculptor, " you 're not the first maidea Who came but for Friendship and took away Love." THE CONTRAST. Captain C. Morris. <^^ N London I never know what I 'd be at, qUq Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that : I 'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, And life seems a blessing too happy for man. But the country, Lord help me ! sets all matters right, So calm and composing from morning to night ; Oh, it settles the spirits when nothing is seen But an ass on a common, a goose on a green ! In town, if it rain, why it damps not our hope, The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope ; What harm though it pour whole nights or whole days? It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. 26o THE CONTRAST. In the country, what bliss, when it rains in the fields, To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields Or go crawling from window to window, to see A pig on a dunghill or crow on a tree. In town, we 've no use for the skies overhead, For when the sun rises then we go to bed ; And as to that old-fashioned virgin the moon. She shines out of season, like satin in June. In the country, these planets delightfully glare, Just to show us the object we want isn't there; Oh, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise. To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes ! But 'tis in the country alone we can find That happy resource, that relief of the mind. When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake : THE CONTRAST. 261 Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet ; But what is all that to the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an eel ? I have heard though, that love in a cottage is sweet. When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy meet ; That 's to come — for as yet I, alas ! am a swain. Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about ; But in London, thank Heaven ! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to cure. In town let me live then, in town let me die, For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. If one must have a villa in summer to dwell, Oh, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall ! LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. A CONCEIT. Sir J. XoEL Paton. WEET ! in the flowery garland of our love, 7^ Where fancy, folly, frenzy, interwove Our diverse destinies, not all unkind, A secret strand of purest gold entwined. While bloomed the magic flowers, we scarcely knew The gold was there. But now their petals strew Life's pathway ; and instead, with scarce a sigh, We see the cold but fadeless circlet lie. With scarce a sigh ! — And yet the flowers were fair. Fed by youth's dew and love's enchanted air ; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 261 Ay ! fair as youth and love ; but doomed, alas ! Like these and all things beautiful, to pass. But this bright thread of unadulterate ore — Friendship — will last though love exist no more ; And though it lack the fragrance of the wreath, — Unlike the flowers, it hides no thorn beneath. YEARS AGO. Thomas L. Peacock. PLAYED with you, 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four ; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together, — But that was sixty years ago. You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong ; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided jeyously along ; YEARS AGO. 265 And I did love you very dearly — How dearly, words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly ,- But that was fifty years ago. Then other lovers came around you, Your beauty grew from year to year. And many a splendid circle found you The centre of its glittering sphere. I saw you then, first vows forsaking. On rank and wealth your hand bestow ; Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking,— But that was forty years ago. And I lived on, to wed another : No cause she gave me to repine ; And when I heard you were a mother, I did not wish the children mine. My own young flock, in fair progression, Made up a pleasant Christmas row : My joy in them was past expression, — But that was thirty years ago. 266 YEARS AGO. You grew a matron plump and comely, You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze ; My earthly lot was far more homely, But I too had my festal days. No merrier eyes have ever glistened Around the hearthstone's wintry glow, Than when my youngest child was christened,- But that was twenty years ago. Time past ; my eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire grey ; One pet of four years old I Ve carried Among the wild-flowered meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure, Where now, as then, the cowslips blow. She fills her basket's ample measure, — And that is not ten years ago. But though first love's impassioned blindness Has passed away in colder light, I still have thought of you with kindness. And shall do, till our last good-night. YEARS AGO. 267 The ever-rolling silent hours AVill bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers ^Vill be an hundred years ago. OUR BALL. \V. M. Praed. >0U 'LL come to our ball : — since we parted I 've thought of you more than I '11 say ; Indeed, I was half broken-hearted For a week, when they took you away. Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers Our walks on the Ness and the Den, And echoed the musical numbers Which you used to sing to me then. 1 know the romance, now 'tis over, 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall ; I know you're a terrible rover; But, Clarence, you '11 come to our ball. OUR BALL. 269 It 's only a year since at college You put on your cap and your gown ; But, Clarence, you 've grown out of knowledge, And changed from the sjiur to the crown : The voice, that was best when it faltered, Is firmer and fuller in tone, And the smile, that should never have altered, Dear Clarence, it is not your own. Your cravat was badly selected, Your coat don't become you at all ; And why is your hair so neglected ? You must have it curled for our ball. I 've often been out upon Haldon To look for a covey with Pup ; I 've often been over to Shaldon To see how your boat is laid up : In spite of the terrors of Aunty I 've ridden the filly you broke ; And I 've studied your sweet little Dante In the shade of your favourite oak. 270 OUR BALL. When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, ' I sat in your love of a shawl ; And I '11 wear what you brought me from Florence, Perhaps, if you '11 come to our ball. You '11 find us all changed since you vanished : We've set up a National school. And waltzing is utterly banished, And Ellen has married a fool. The Major is going to travel; Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout ; The walk is laid down with fresh gravel. And papa is laid up with the gout. , And Jane has gone on with her easels ; And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; And Fanny is sick with the measles, — And I'll tell you the rest at the ball. You '11 meet all your beauties : the Lily, And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, And Lucy, who made me so silly At Dawlish, by taking your arm, OUR BALL. 271 Miss Manners, who always abused you For talking so much about hock ; And her sister, who often amused you By raving of rebels and Rock ; And something which surely would answer. An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; So, though you were seldom a dancer, You '11 dance, just for once, at our ball. But out on the world ! from the flowers, It shuts out the sunshine of truth ; It blights the green leaves in our bowers, It makes an old age of our youth ; And the flow of our feeling, once in it, Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, Grows harder by sudden degrees. Time treads o'er the graves of affection ; Sweet honey is turned into gall: Perhaps you have no recollection That ever you danced at our ball : 272 OUR BALL. You once could be pleased with our ballads ;- To-day you have critical ears ; You once could be charme.d with our salads ;- Alas ! you 've been dining with peers. You trifled and flirted with many ; — You 've forgotten the when and the how : There was one you liked better than any, — Perhaps you 've forgotten her now. But of those you remember most newly, Of those who delight and enthrall, None love you a quarter so truly As some you will find at our ball. They tell me you 've many who flatter, Because of your wit and your song ; They tell me — and what does it matter ? — You like to be praised by the throng : They tell me you're shadowed with laurel; They tell me you 're loved by a Blue ; They tell me you 're sadly immoral : — Dear Clarence, that cannot be true ! OUR BALL. 273 But to me you are still what I found you, Before you grew clever and tall ; And you '11 think of the spell that once bound you ; And you '11 come— won't you come ?— to our ball. TO HELEN. W. M. Praed. )F, wandering in a wizard's car Through yon blue ether, I were able To fashion of a little star A taper for my Helen's table ; — " What then?" she asks me with a laugh; — Why, then, with all heaven's lustre glowing, It would not gild her path with half The light her love o'er mine is throwing ! -^^^^^^^-^ THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. W. M. Praed. >EARS — years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise or witty, — Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty ; — Years — years ago, — while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly, — In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the county ball : There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, 276 THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing ; She was our queen, our rose, our star ; And then she danced — O Heaven, her dancing ! Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; Her voice was exquisitely tender ; Her eyes were full of liquid light ; I never saw a waist so slender ! Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows ; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wondered where she 'd left her sparrows. She talked, — of politics or prayers, — Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets, — Of danglers, — or of dancing bears, — Of battles, — or the last new bcnnets. By candlelight, at twelve o'clock. To me it mattered not a tittle ; If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 277 Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed ; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling : My father frowned ; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling ? She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose colour was extremely hectic \ Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer. And Lord-Lieutenant of the county. But titles, and the three per cents.. And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes, and rents. Oh, what are they to love's sensations ? 278 THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses j He cares as little for the Stocks As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketched ; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanised ; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading : She warbled Handel ; it was grand ; She made the Catalani jealous: She touched the organ ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home. Well filled with all an album's glories ; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories. Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder-water. THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 279 And she was flattered, worshipped, bored 3 Her steps were watched, her dress was noted ; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted ; She laughed, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolished ; She frowned, and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolished. She smiled on many, just for fun, — I knew that there was nothing in it ; I was the first — the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute. I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded ; She wrote a charming hand, — and oh ! How sweetly all her notes were folded ! Our love was like most other loves ; — A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud, and a pair of gloves, And "Fly not yet"— upon the river; '28o THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, — and then we parted. We parted ; months and years rolled by ; We met again four summers after : Our parting was all sob and sigh ; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's belle. But only — Mrs Something Rogers ! A LETTER OF AD VICE. W. M. Praed. ^f-^OU 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 : 282 A LETTER OF ADVICE. You gave me a ring for a token 3 I wear it wherever I go : I gave you a chain, — is it broken ? My own Araminta, say " No ! " O think of our favourite 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 1 " 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 ! " A LETTER OF ADVICE. 283 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 apostatise, — 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 ; 284 A LETTER OF ADVICE. 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 hi-mself " 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 vapours 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 ! " A LETTER OF ADVICE. 285 If he ever sets foot in the City Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 'f 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 ; 286 A LETTER OF ADVICE. 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 ! " THE PACE THAT KILLS. W. J. Prowse. )HE gallop of life was once exciting, Madly we dashed over pleasant plains ; And the joy, like the joy of a brave man fighting, Poured in a flood through our eager veins. Hot youth is the time for the splendid ardour That stings and startles, that throbs and thrills ; And ever we pressed our horses harder, Galloping on at the pace that kills ! So rapid the pace, so keen the pleasure, Scarcely we paused to glance aside, As we mocked the dullards who watched at leisure The frantic race that we chose to ride. 2S8 E PACE THAT KILLS. Yes, youth is the tune when a master-passion, Or love or ambition, our nature fills ; And each of us rode in a different fashion — All of us rode at the pace that kills ! And vainly, O friends ! ye strive to bind us ; Flippantly, gaily, we answer you : " Should Atra Cura jump up behind us, Strong are our steeds, and can carry two ! " But we find the road, so smooth at morning, Rugged at night 'mid the lonely hills ; And all too late we recall the warning, Weary at last of the pace that kills ! • • * • • The gallop of life was just beginning; Strength we wasted in efforts vain ; And now when the prizes are worth the winning, We 've scarcely the spirit to ride again ! The spirit, forsooth ! 'Tis our strength has failed us, And sadly we ask, as we count our ills, "What pitiful, pestilent folly ailed us? Why did we ride at the pace that kills?" M V LOST OLD A G E. A YOUNG INVALID. W. J. Prowse. ' 'M only nine-and-twenty yet, Though young experience makes me sage; So, how on earth can / forget The memory of my lost old age ? Of manhood's prime let others boast ; It comes too late, or goes too soon : At times the life I envy most Is that of slippered pantaloon ! In days of old — a twelvemonth back ! — I laughed, and quaffed, and chaffed my fill : 290 MY LOST OLD AGE. And now, a broken-winded hack, I 'm weak and worn, and faint and ill. Life's opening chapter pleased nae well ; Too hurriedly I turned the page ; I spoiled the volume Who can tell What might have been my lost old age ? I lived my life ; I had my day ; And now I feel it more and more : The game I have no strength to play Seems better than it seemed of yore. I watch the sport with earnest eyes. That gleam with joy before it ends ; For plainly I can hear the cries That hail the triumph of my friends. We work so hard, we age so soon, We live so swiftly, one and all, That ere our day be fairly noon Tlie shadows eastward seem to fall. MV LOST OLD AGE. 291 Some tender light may gild them yet ; As yet, it 's not so very cold ; And, on the whole, I won't regret My slender chance of growing old ! ''NO, THANK YOU, JOHN/" Christina Rossetti. NEVER said I loved you, John : Why will you tease me day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon, With always " Do" and "Pray"? You know I never loved you, John ; No fault of mine made me your toast : Why will you haunt me with a face so wan As shows an hour-old ghost? I daresay Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you 'd ask : And pray don't remain single for my sake, Who can't perform that task. NO, THANK YOU, JOHN I" 293 I have no heart ? — Perhaps I have not ; But then you 're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got : Use your own common sense. Let bygones be bygones : Don't call me false, who owned not to be true : I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns Than answer " Yes " to you. Let 's mar our pleasant days no more, Song-birds of passage, days of youth Catch at to-day, forget the days before I '11 wink at your untruth. Let us strike hands as hearty friends, — No more, no less ; and friendship 's good Only don't keep in view ulterior ends. And points not understood 294 "NO, THANK YOU, JOHN I" In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on : Here 's friendship for you if you like j but love,- No, thank you, John 1 A MATCH WITH THE MOON. Dante G. Rossetti. - jEARY already, weary miles to-night y walked for bed : and so, to get some ease, I dogged the flying moon with similes. And like a wisp she doubled on my sight In ponds ; and caught in tree tops like a kite ; And in a globe of film all vapourish Swam full-faced like a silly silver fish ; — Last, like a bubble shot the welkin's height, Where my road turned, and got behind me, and sent My wizened shadow craning round at me. And jeered, " So, step the measure, — one, two, three ! " And if I faced on her, looked innocent. But just at parting, half-way down a dell, She kissed me for good-night. So you '11 not tell. AT THE OPERA— '' FAUST'' [Extraci.] William Sawyer. GCpT came with the curtain's rising, ?] \2 That face of a faultless mould, And the amber drapery glistened With the lustre of woven gold. I could hear a silken rustle. And the air had fragrant grown. But the scene from my sight had faded, And I looked on that face alone. In the midst of the grand exotics That blossom the season through, It is there, a rose of the garden Fresh from the winds and the dew ;- AT THE OPERA. 297 Fresh as a face that follows The hounds up a rimy hill, With hair blown back by the breezes That seem to live in it still. So fresh and rosy and dimpled — But, oh ! what a soul there lies, Melting to liquid agate Those womanly tender eyes ! How it quickens under the music, As if at a breath divine. And the ripening lips disparted Drink in the sound like wine ! . . . Till the music surges and ceases. As the sea when the wind is spent, And the blue of heaven brightens Through cloudy fissure and rent. It ceases, — and all is over, The box is empty and cold. And the amber drapery deadens To satin that has been gold. ROSE SONG. William Sawyer. fUNNY breadth of roses, / Roses white and red, Rosy bud and rose leaf From the blossom shed ! Goes my darling flying All the garden through ; Laughing she eludes me, Laughing I pursue. Now to pluck the rosebud, Now to pluck the rose (Hand a sweeter blossom), Stopping as she goes : ROSE SONG. 299 What but this contents her, Laughing in her flight, Pelting with the red rose, Pelting with the white. Roses round me flying, Roses in my hair, I to snatch them trying : Darling, have a care ! Lips are so like flowers, I might snatch at those. Redder than the rose leaves, Sweeter than the rose. MY FAMILIAR. J Godfrey Saxe. GAIN I hear that creaking step !— He 's rapphng at the door ! — Too well 1 know the boding sound That ushers in a bore. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who comes— but never goes ! He drops into my easy-chair, And asks about the news ; He peers into my manuscript. And gives his candid views ; MV FAMILIAR. 301 He tells me where he likes the line, And where he 's forced to grieve ; He takes the strangest liberties, — But never takes his leave ! He reads my daily paper through Before I 've seen a word ; He scans the lyric (that I wrote), And thinks it quite absurd ; He calmly smokes my last cigar. And coolly asks for more ; He opens everything he sees — Except the entry door ! He talks about his fragile health, And tells me of the pains ; He suffers from a score of ills Of which he ne'er complains ; And how he struggled once with death To keep the fiend at bay ; On themes like those away he goes — But never goes away ! ;o2 MV FAMILIAR. He tells me of the carping words Some shallow critic wrote ; And every precious paragraph Familiarly can quote ; He thinks the writer did me wrong; He 'd like to run him through ! He says a thousand pleasant things — But never says " Adieu ! " Whene'er he comes — that dreadful man- Disguise it as I may, I know that, like an autumn rain, He '11 last throughout the day. In vain I speak of urgent tasks ; In vain I scowl and pout ; A frown is no extinguisher — It does not put him out ! I mean to take the knocker off, Put crape upon the door, Or hint to John that I am gone To stay a month or more. MY FAMILIAR. I do not tremble when I meet The stoutest of my foes, But Heaven defend me from the friend Who never, never goes ! rT^^^^ A U G USTA. J. Godfrey Saxe. >ANDSOME and haughty ! "—a comment that came From Hps which were never accustomed to malice ; A girl with a presence superb as her name, And charmingly fitted for love — in a palace ! And oft I have wished, — for in musing alone One's fancy is apt to be very erratic, — That the lady might wear — No ! I never will own A thought so decidedly undemocratic ! But if 'twere a coronet — this I '11 aver, No duchess on earth could more gracefully wear it; And even a democrat — thinking of Jm- — Might surely be pardoned for wishing to share it. ''DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED r J. Godfrey Saxe. pfYf\\ADAM, you are very pressing, i ]L And I can't decline the task ; With the slightest gift of guessing, You would scarcely need to ask ! Don't you see a hint of marriage In his sober-sided face, In his rather careless carriage, And extremely rapid pace ? If he 's not committed treason, Or some wicked action done, Can you see tlie faintest reason Why a bachelor should run ? u 3o6 "DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED?" Why should he be in a flurry ? But a loving wife to greet Is a circumstance to hurry The most dignified of feet ! When afar the man has spied her, If the grateful, happy elf Does not haste to be beside her, He must be beside himself! It is but a trifle, maybe, — But observe his practised tone When he calms your stormy baby, Just as if it were his own. Do you think a certain meekness You have mentioned in his looks, Is a chronic optic weakness That has come of reading books ? '•DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED 1" 307 Did you ever see his vision Peering underneath a hood, Save enough for recognition, As a civil person should ? Could a Capuchin be colder When he glances, as he must, At a finely rounded shoulder Or a proudly swelling bust? Madam ! — think of every feature, Then deny it if you can, — He 's a fond, connubial creature, And a very married man ! ^^^W LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. Percy Bysshe Shelley. HE fountains mingle with the river, S^/ And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion ! Nothmg in the world is single ; All things, by a law divine, In one another's being mi-ngle — Why not I with thine ? See, the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another ; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother ; Z VE 'S PHIL OSOPIIY. 309 And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me? TO E- V- Percy Bysshe Shelley. ADONNA ! wherefore hast thou sent to me Sweet-basil and mignonette, Embleming love and health, which never yet In the same wreath might be ? Alas ! and they are wet ! Is it with thy kisses or thy tears ? For never rain or dew Such fragrance drew From plant or flower : — the very doubt endears My sadness ever new, The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for thee. SONG TO FANNY. Horace Smith. ATURE ! thy fair and smiling face Has now a double power to bless, For 'tis the glass in which I trace My absent Fanny's loveliness. Her heavenly eyes above me shine, The rose reflects her modest blush, She breathes in every eglantine, She sings in every warbling thrush. That her dear form alone I see Need not excite surprise in any. For Fanny 's all the world to me, And all the world to me is Fanny. TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON. Hon. William R. Spencer. 00 late I stayed ! forgive the crime, — ^^ Unheeded flew the hours j How noiseless falls the foot of Time Tliat only treads on flowers ! What eye with clear account remarks The ebbing of his glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass ? Ah ! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of paradise have lent Their plumage for his wings ? EPITAPH UPON THE YEAR 1806. Hon. William R. Spencer. IS gone, with its thorns and its roses, *'^/ With the dust of dead ages to mix ; Time's charnel for ever encloses The year Eighteen hundred and six ! Though many may question thy merit, I duly thy dirge will perform, Content, if thy heir but inherit Thy portion of sunshine and storm ! My blame and my blessing thou sharest, For black were thy moments in part, But oh, thy fair days were the fairest That ever have shone on my heart. 314 EPITAPH UPON THE YEAR 1806. If thine was a gloom the completest That death's darkest cypress could throw, Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest That life in full blossom could show ! One hand gave the balmy corrector Of ills which the other had brewed ; One draught of thy chalice of nectar All taste of thy bitters subdued. 'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses ! With mine, tears more precious will mix, To hallow this midnight which closes The year Eighteen hundred and six. WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. Hon. William R. Spencer. • HEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipt in three blessings — wife, children, and friends. In vain surely Pluto maintained he was cheated. For justice divine could not compass her ends ; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heav'n with wife, children, and friends. 3i6 WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, The fund, ill-secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; But the heart issues bills which are never protested When drawn on the firm of AVife, Children, and Friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and cherish The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends, O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish. Bedewed with the tears of wife, children, and friends. Let us drink — for my song, growing graver and graver, To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; Let us drink — pledge me high ; — Love and Virtue shall flavour The glass which I fill to wife, children, and friends. LITTLE GERTY. Frank Stainforth. 'VE a sweetheart blithe and gay, ^ Fairer far than fabled fay, Light and airy. She is bright and debonnaire, Softly falls her golden hair ; I all other loves forswear : Little fairy. Little Gerty swears she 's true, Gives me kisses not a few \ Do I doubt her ? Hearts are often bought and sold ; Is it glitter, is it gold ? 3i8 LITTLE GERTY. Half my grief could not be told Were I without her. Gerty scolds me if I roam, Wonders what I want from home, With sly glances — Looks that seem to me to say, " I have waited all the day ; You were very wrong to stray, Naughty Francis." If I whisper, " We must part," Gerty, sighing, breaks her heart ; Awkward, very. When I say that I 'II lemain, All hei smiles return again, Like warm sunshine aftei rain ; We are merry. If my sweetheart knows her mind, Love is mad as well as blind. Little Gerty LITTLE GERTY. 3>9 Says she means to marry me; She is only six, you see ; I — alas, that it should be ! — Am two-and-thirty. - Reprmted, by permission, from CasselPs Magazine. THE HUSBAND'S SONG. Charles Swain. AINY and rough sets the day, — 1 (|g^ There 's a heart beating for somebody ; I must be up and away, — Somebody 's anxious for somebody. Thrice hath she been to the gate, — Thrice hath she Hstened for somebody ; 'Midst the night, stormy and late, Somebody 's waiting for somebody. There '11 be a comforting fire, There'll be a welcome for somebody; One, in her neatest attire, Will look at the table for somebody. THE HUSBAND'S SONG. Though the stars fled from the west, There is a star yet for somebody, lighting the home he loves best. Warming the bosom of somebody. There '11 be a coat o'er the chair, There will be slippers for somebody ; There 'U be a wife's tender care, — Love's fond embracement for somebody ; There '11 be the little one's charms, — Soon 'twill be wakened for somebody ; When I have both in my arms, Oh ! but how blest will be somebod}^. Jl MA TC H. Algernon Charles Swinburne. )F love were what the rose is, And I were Uke the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is. And I were like the leaf. If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune. With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle. A MATCH. 323 With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune. If you were Life, my darling, And I your love were Death, We 'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weath With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath ; If you were Life, my darling, And I your love were Death. If you were thrall to Sorrow, And I were page to Joy, We 'd play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons. And tears of night and morrow, And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to Sorrow, And I were page to Joy. 324 A MATCH. If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We 'd throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May. If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. We 'd hunt down Love together, Pluck out his flying feather. And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein ; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. -f--^|^--i- FELISE. [Extract.l Mais ou sont les neitres d'antan ? Algernon Charles Swinburne. HAT shall be said between us here, Among the downs, between the trees, In fields that knew our feet last year. In sight of quiet sands and seas, This year, Felise ? Who knows what word were best to say? For last year's leaves lie dead and red On this sweet day, in this green May, And barren corn makes bitter bread : What shall be said ? 326 FELISE. Here, as last year, the fields begin, A fire of flowers and glowing grass ; — The old fields we laughed and lingered in, Seeing each our souls in last year's glass, Felise, alas ! Shall we not laugh, shall we not weep ? Not we, though this be as it is ; For love awake or love asleep Ends in a laugh, a dream, a kiss, A song like this. I that have slept, awake, and you Sleep, who last year were well awake ; Though love do all that love can do, My love will never ache or break For your heart's sake. The great sea, faultless as a flower, Throbs, trembling under beam and breeze, F^LISE. 327 And laughs with love of the amorous hour. I found you fairer once, Fe'lise, Than flowers or seas. We played at bondsman and at queen ; But as the days change men change too • I find the grey sea's notes of green, The ereen sea's fervent flakes of blue, More fair than you. Your beauty is not over-fair Now in mine eyes, who am grown up wise , The smell of flowers in all your hair Allures not now ; no sigh replies If your heart sighs. But you sigh seldom, you sleep sound ; You find love's new name good enough : Less sweet I find it than I found The sweetest name that ever love Grew weary of. AN INTERLUDE. Algernon Charles Swinburne. )N the greenest growth of the May-time, "^ (^ I rode where the w^oods were wet, Between the dawn and the day-time ; The spring was glad that we met. There was something the season wanted, Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet ; The breath at your hps that panted, The pulse of the grass at your feet. You came, and the sun came after. And the green grew golden abbve ; And the May-flowers lightened with laughter, And the meadow-sweet shook with love. AN INTERLUDE. 329 Your feet in the full-grown grasses Moved soft as a weak wind blows ; You passed me as April passes, With face made out of a rose. By the stream where the stems were slender, Your light foot paused at the sedge ; It might be to watch the tender Light leaves in the spring-time hedge, On boughs that the sweet month blanches With flowery frost of May ; It might be a bird in the branches, It might be a thorn in the way. I waited to watch you linger, With foot drawn back from the dew, Till a sunbeam straight like a finger Struck sharp through the leaves at you. 330 AN INTERLUDE. And a bird overhead sang " Follow," And a bird to the right sang " Here ; " And the arch of the leaves was hollow, And the meaning of May was clear. I saw where the sun's hand pointed, I knew what the bird's note said ; By the dawn and the dewfall anointed, You were queen by the gold on your head. As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember Recalls a regret of the sun, I remember, forget, and remember What love saw done and undone. I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met ; You hoped we were both broken-hearted. And knew we should both forget. AN INTER L UDE. 33 1 And May with her world in flower Seemed still to murmur and smile As you murmured and smiled for an hour ; I saw you twice at the stile. A hand like a white-wood blossom You lifted, and waved, and passed, With head hung down to the bosom. And pale, as it seemed, to the last. And the best and the worst of this is. That neither is most to blame, If you've forgotten my kisses, And I 've forgotten your name. LILIAN. Alfred Tennyson. 51 RY, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can ; She '11 not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian. When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking through and through me, Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks : LILIAN. So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gathered wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks ; Then away she flies. Prithee weep, May Lilian ! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian : Through my very heart it thrilleth, When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth : Prithee weep, May Lilian ! Praying all I can, If prayers will not hurt thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian. TO A COQ UETTE. Alfred Tennyson, 'HE form, the form alone is eloquent ! v<^^W> ^^ nobler yearning never broke her rest Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, And win all eyes with all accomplishment : Yet in the waltzing circle as we went, My fancy made me for a moment blest To find my heart so near the beauteous breast That once had power to rob it of content. A moment came the tenderness of tears, The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot love, And if you kissed her feet a thousand years, She still would take the praise, and care no more. UNDER THE CLIFFS. {Extract.^ Walter Thornbury. HE sails, now white as a swan's breast, ^1^ Turned in a moment golden The red-brown canvas, fluttering out, Was presently all folden. The tide came rolling to our feet. With spreading frills of snow, As on the sand, so brown and soft, We sat amid the glow. Oh, all the hour-glass sands that Time Had spilt lay there around us ! Yet still forgetful of day's flight The mystic twilight found us. 336 UNDER THE CLIFFS. As the large moon and smouldering globe Of orange-fire rose slow, And home we wandered to the town, Love's ebb had turned to flow. THE FALLING OF THE LEA VES. [Exiraci.] Walter Thornbury. LEAR, keen, and pure, the sunny air Q Is bright as summer's, and as fair; But many a branch is growing bare, And leaves are faUing. October skies are coldly blue, The grass is silvery wet with dew, And berries crimson to the view, While leaves are falling. Thick webs wrap every hedge in grey, Dull mists shroud up the dying day ; Black vapours bar the labourer's way, And leaves are falling. Y 338 THE FALLING OF THE LEA VES. Like ghosts, pale drifts of mournful light Stretch in the west, and on the night Look with sad faces, wan and white, While leaves are falling. How many autumns 1 have known ! But each one finds me more alone ; Now youth has left its royal throne, And leaves are falling. Yet, Hope, wear still thy starry crown, Point to far statues of renown, And bid me trample sorrows down, Though leaves be falling. KITTY OF COLERAINE. Unknown. S beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain. " Oh, what shall I do now ? 'twas looking at you now ; Sure, sure such a pitcher I '11 ne'er meet again ; 'Twas the pride of my dairy, — O Barney M'Leary, You 're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her That such a misfortune should give her such pain , 340 KITTY OF COLERAINE. A kiss then I gave her, — before I did leave her She vowed for such pleasure she 'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason, Misfortunes will never come single, that 's plain, For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine- A BALL-ROOM ROMANCE. Unknown. FAIR good-night to thee, love, A fain good-night to thee, And pleasant be thy path, love. Though it end not with me. Liking light as ours, love, Was never meant to last ; It was a moment's fantasy, And as such it has passed. We met in lighted halls, And our spirits took their tone, Like other dreams of midnight With colder morning flown. 342 A BALL-ROOM ROMANCE. And thinkest thou to ever win A single tear from me ? Lightly won and lightly lost, I shed no tear for thee. For him, the light and vain one, For him there never wakes That love for which a woman's heart Will beat until it breaks. And yet the spell was pleasant, Though it be broken now. Like shaking down loose blossoms From off the careless bough. Thy words were courtly flattery ; Such sink like morning dew : But ah ! love takes another tone, The tender and the true. There 's little to remember. And nothing to regret : Love touches not the flatterer, Love chains not the coquette. A BALL-ROOM ROMANCE. 343 'Twas of youth's fairy follies, By which no shade is cast ; One of its airy vanities, And like them it hath past. No vows were ever plighted, We 'd no farewell to say : Gay were we when we met at first, And parted just as gay. . . . A fair good-night to thee, love, A fair good-night awhile ; I have no parting sighs to give, So take my parting smile. ''THIRTEEN." Sydney Walker. HE Queen is proud on her throne, And proud are her maids so fine ; But the proudest lady that ever was known Is this little lady of mine. And oh ! she flouts me, she flouts me ! And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me ! Though I drop on my knees, and sue for grace, And beg and beseech, with the saddest face. Still ever the same she doubts me. She is seven by the calendar. A lily's almost as tall; But oh ! this little lady 's by far The proudest lady of all ! THE PROUDEST LADY. 349 It 's her sport and pleasure to flout me ! To spurn and scorn and scout me ! But ah ! I 've a notion it 's naught but play, And that, say what she will and feign what she may, She can't well do without me ! For at times, like a pleasant tune, A sweeter mood o'ertakes her ; Oh ! then she 's sunny as skies of June, And all her pride forsakes her. Oh ! she dances round me so fairly ! Oh ! her laugh rings out so rarely ! Oh ! she coaxes, and nestles, and peers, and pries, In my puzzled face with her two great eyes, And owns she loves me dearly. LITTLE BELL. [Extract.] Thomas Westwood. JPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray, " Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What 's your name," quoth he. " What's your name, oh ! stop and straight unfold. Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold." " Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, Tossed aside her gleaming, golden locks. " Bonny bird," quoth she, " Sing me your best song, before I go." " Here's the very finest song I know. Little Bell," said he. LITTLE BELL. 351 And the blackbird piped — you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird; Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles. And the while that bonny bird did pour His full heart out, freely, o'er and o'er, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow. And shine forth in happy overflow From the brown bright eyes. A^^C LOVE IN A CO TTA GE. [£xtracf.] N. P. Willis. )HEY may talk of love in a cottage, And bowers of trellised vine, Of nature bewitchingly simple, And milkmaids half divine ; They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping In the shade of a spreading tree. And a walk in the fields at morning, By the side of a footstep free ! True love is at home on a carpet, And mightily likes his ease ; And true love has an eye for a dinner. And starves beneath shady trees. LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 353 His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot 's an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipped with a jewel, And shot from a silver string. TO A FISH. John Wolcot. PIt^HY flyest thou away with fear? Trust me there's nought of danger near, I have no wicked hooke All covered with a snaring bait, Alas 1 to tempt thee to thy fate, And dragge thee from the brooke. harmless tenant of the flood ! 1 do not wish to spill thy blood, For Nature unto thee • Perchance hath given a tender wife. And children dear, to charm thy life, As she hath done for me. TO A FISH. 355 Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish ; And when an angler for his dish, Through gluttony's vile sin, Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, God give thee strength, O gentle trout. To pull the raskall in ! TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH AND GERMAN. By ETHEL GREY. TWENTY YEARS. [Fro III the Firiich.'] E. Barateau. 'HE sun had scattered each opal cloud, And the flowers had waked from their winter's rest, The song of the skylark rang free and loud, And ah ! there were eggs in the swallow's ne&t ! And for joy of the spring, that so sweet appears, I sang with the singing of twenty years. Out from the meadows there passed a maid, — How can I tell you why she was fair ? To see was to love, as she bent her head Over the brooklet that murmured there. 36o TWENTY YEARS. As I gazed, in an April of hopes and fears, I dreamed with the dreaming of twenty years. Next, — for I saw her just once again, — Just once more in that rare spring-tide, — I felt a heart-throb of a vague, sweet pain, For I noticed that some one was by her side ! And I turned, with a passion of sudden tears. For they loved with the loving of twenty years. ROSETTE. [/mitated frovi the Frcnch\ Beranger. ES ! I know you 're very fair ; And the rose-bloom of your cheek, And the gold-crown of your hair, Seem of tender love to speak. But to me they speak in vain, I am growing old, my pet, — Ah ! if I could love you now As I used to love Rosette ! In your carnage every day I can see you bow and smile ; Lovers your least word obey, Mistress you of every wile. 362 ROSETTE. She was poor, and went on foot, Badly drest, you know, — and yet,- Ah ! if I could love you now As I used to love Rosette ! You are clever, and well known For your wit so quick and free ; — Now, Rosette, I blush to own, Scarcely knew her A B C ; But she had a potent charm In my youth : — ah, vain regret ! If I could but love you now As I used to love Rosette ! ^-Vhr^ TIRESOME SPRING! [From the Freyich.l B^RANGER. HAVE watched her at her window '^^ Through long days of snow and wind, Till I learnt to love the shadow That would flit across her blind, 'Twixt the lime-tree's leafless branches In the dusk my eyes I 'd strain : Now the boughs are thick with foliage, — Tiresome Spring ! you 've come again ! Now, behind that screen of verdure Is my angel lost to view; And no longer for the robins Will her white hands bread-crumbs strew. 364 TIRESOME SPRING! Never in the frosts of winter, Did those robins beg in vain : Now, alas ! the snow has melted, — Tiresome Spring ! you 've come again ! 'Tis kind winter that I wish for ; — How I long to hear the hail Rattling on deserted pavements, Dancing in the stormy gale ! For I then could see her windows, Watch my darling through each pane Now the lime-trees are in blossom, — Tiresome Spring ! you 've come again 1 "SHE IS SO PRETTY." [From the French^ B6RANGER. ^ HE is so pretty, the girl I love, Her eyes are tender and deep and blue As the summer night in the skies above, As violets seen through a mist of dew. How can I hope, then, her heart to gain ? She is so pretty, and I am so plain ! She is so pretty, so fair to see ! Scarcely she 's counted her nineteenth spring, Fresh, and blooming, and young,— ah, me ! Why do I thus her praises sing ? Surely from me 'tis a senseless strain. She is so pretty, and I am so plain ! 366 SHE IS SO PRETTY. Sue is so pretty, so sweet and dear, There 's many a lover who loves her well ; I may not hope, I can only fear, Yet shall I venture my love to tell ? . . . Ah ! I have pleaded, and not in vain — Though she 's so pretty, and I am so plain. THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH \Iniitated from the Fir)ichl] B6RANGER. G^N the evening, I sit near my poker and tongs, ?|Jg And I dream in the firehght's glow, And sometimes I quaver forgotten old songs That I listened to long ago. Then out of the cinders there cometh a chirp, Like an echoing, answering cry, — Little we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. For my cricket has learnt, I am sure of it quite, That this earth is a silly, strange place, And perhaps he 's been beaten and hurt in the fight. And perhaps he 's been passed in the race. 368 THE CRICKET O.V THE HEARTH. But I know he has found it far better to sing Than to talk of ill-luck and to sigh, — Little we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. Perhaps he has loved, and perhaps he has lost And perhaps he is weary and weak. And tired of life's torrent, so turbid and tost, And disposed to be mournful and meek. Yet still I believe that he thinks it is best To sing, and let troubles float by, — Little we care for the outside world, My friend the cricket and I. AN INVITATION. [From the French.l Th£ophile Gautier. ELL me, pretty one, where will you sail? How shall our bark be steered, I pray ? Breezes flutter each silken vail, Tell me, where will you go to-day ? My vessel's helm is of ivory white. Her bulwarks glisten with jewels bright And red gold ; The sails are made from the wings of a dove, And the man at the wheel is the god of love, Blythe and bold. 2 A 370 AN INVITA TION. Where shall we sail? 'Mid the Baltic's foam? Or over the broad Pacific roam ? Don't refijse. Say, shall we gather the sweet snow-flowers, Or wander in rose-strewn Eastern bowers ? Only choose. " Oh, carry me then," cried the fair coquette, " To the land where never I 've journeyed yet, To that shore Where love is lasting, and change unknown, And a man is faithful to one alone Evermore." Go, seek that land for a year and a day, At the end of the time you '11 be still far away. Pretty maid; — 'Tis a country unlettered in map or in chart, 'Tis a country that does not exist, sweetheart, I 'm afraid ! MV PRETTY NEIGHBOUR. {^Fioin the French.^ Victor Hugo. CTpF you 've nothing, dear, to tell me, ^]u Why, each morning passing by. With your sudden smiles compel me To adore you, then repel me, Pretty little neighbour, 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 '11 attend if you '11 impeach me Of my sins, or even preach me Sermons hard to understand ; 372 MY PRETTY NEIGHBOUR. But, if you have naught to teach me, Dear, 30ur meaning I demand ! If you wish me, love, to leave you, Why for ever 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 neighbour, say ! ''ARISEr \Froin the French^ Victor Hugo. ^HE dawn has awakened the skies , Closed is thy door, O my love ! Why not awaken, O beautiful eyes ? Blue as the heavens above. The flowers have unfolded their leaves, Wakens the rose at my feet : Thou art a fresh budding rose. Why art thou sleeping, my sweet? Wake then, O darling, with earth's fairest things, List to thy lover who watches and sings. The world is arisen from rest. Nature around says, " Arise ! " 374 "ARISE!" All that is brightest and best Waits for its mirror — thine eyes. Rosy clouds bring thee the day, " Music is here," coos the dove ; Gifts they bring, many and rare, Only my heart brings thee love. Wake then, O darling, with earth's fairest things, List to thy lover who watches and sings. THREE KISSES. \Imitaied from the German. ] A. VON Chamisso. (5>0U little maid with golden hair, (aJLJJJ As at my thin grey locks you stare, Your lisping tongue Half asks the question which your eyes Half mirror in their sweet surprise, Was I once young? Well, yes, there was a time, I think. When even you could scarcely shrink From saying so : Some thought I was a handsome youth. But then they died, in sober truth, Long years ago. 376 THREE KISSES. Your dimpled face, so rosy round, Recalls, as on my knee you bound, Another, As fresh and fair, which some one wore. Who was she? Why, my pet, 'twas your Grandmother ! Once in those days I kissed her hand (I was in love, you understand) ; She married Your grandpapa ; and as for me, A broken heart across the sea I carried. When I returned, your mother, sweet, ^^^as there my wearied steps to greet With gladness : But then came days of lovers' tryst ; Her fair brow as a bride I kist In sadness. THREE KISSES. Zll Since then I 've travelled far and wide, And now you 're sitting by my side, Her daughter ! And often from your voice they ring, The songs your mother used to sing, — I taught her. But as I kiss your baby hps, And little rosy finger-tips. My laughter Is mingled with regret : I know The bud will to a blossom blow, The child must to a woman grow, Hereafter. A LOVE TEST. {IiJiitaied from the German.'\ Carl Herloszsohn. WEET, 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 ; A LOVE TEST. 379 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. THE BOUQUET. \Frovi the German.l Uhland. ^F every flower 's an emblem, as you say, '■^ And every twig suggests a separate feeling ; If sadness crouches 'neath the cypress grey, And love from out a rosebud may be stealing ; If colours, too, express one's state of mind, And Nature's tints can speak of human passion ; If Hope's fair livery in green we find, And Jealousy brings yellow into fashion ; Then, sweetheart, in my garden there shall blow All kinds of plants, whose various hues I'll borrow In giving one bouquet to you, to show Yours are my love, my cares, my hopes, my sorrow. THE MISTAKEN MOTH. [hnitatcd from the German.'\ Wegener. 'V^^isrvf^NlD 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. 382 THE MISTAKEN MOTH. 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 ! " PRINTED BV BALLANTYNE. HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON vo..-- ' ' - ■■■•!■■ S-r^\ ■ **-' ~Vi\ V^, ^M^^^ ^ ■:'^<^. S^^^Sr* •'^^fj :t^ ■v^- MiSi' ■ . - > ; >i ■ ^/a, ■•■.'■-S-ieSs'i (;r»>-, ■ ■';•'. "'V •••4, ™__, :': '■' ■■-,■■■ ■, ' ?^.--'i'-:»* '■•■"..' ■'-/.>'--'■'■'' uc SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIUTY AA 000 609 918 8 %vVW>; S/ •? fi:^;v ^j._ _, j-y 4 •■r^e^ wif'"'-- !•■-,•: *; llll'l.ii liHiii^lM a»ii— atg<*#f ;»e«Bii j(in. j i Uiua ^B»mp»«e»ca»» P