l/AiZ^C^y 
 
 -cc/C' 
 
 ^//fr 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2007 witii funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/arcadeeclioesseleOOwoodricli 
 
ARCADE ECHOES 
 
 SELECTED POEMS 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 Virginia University Magazine 
 1856-1890 
 
 COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 THOMAS L. WOOD 
 
 REVISED AND ENLARGED BY 
 
 JOHN W. FISHBURNE 
 
 1856-1894 
 
 CHARLOTTESVILLE, VA 
 
 A. C. BRECHIN, Publisher 
 1894 
 
Copyright, 1894, by 
 A. C. BRECHIN 
 
 Press of J. J. Little & Co 
 Astor Place, New York 
 

 So tte Jttetnors of 
 HENRY W. GRADY 
 
 WHO, EMBODYING IN HIS LIFE AND WORDS THE FIRE AND ELEGANCE 
 
 OF THE OLD SOUTH, DIED WITH THE SWAN-SONG OF THE 
 
 NEW SOUTH ON HIS LIPS, THESE 
 
 ECHOES 
 
 FROM THE YOUNG LIFE OF BOTH AT HIS 
 
 AI.MA MATER 
 ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 iV!Ja70370 
 
TO THOMAS LONGSTREET WOOD, 
 
 WITH life's first laurels in his eager hands, 
 Down the dim slopes of death he went away : 
 Lingering not here disconsolate, as they 
 
 Who wait and watch the ebbing of the sands 
 
 Of life, he suddenly broke the bitter bands 
 That bind the soul within its coil of clay. 
 And with no single hope or faith grown gray. 
 
 Passed, blithe and young, into the Golden Lands. 
 
 Hope dies, love withers, memory fails and fades, 
 But through the long years' ceaseless ebb and 
 flow 
 
 These faint, far Echoes from the old Arcades, — 
 Blow 71 through the reeds of boyhood long ago, — 
 
 hi sunlit hours, in twilight" s quiet shades 
 Will speak to us of One we used to know, 
 
 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON. 
 
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 In revising and enlarging Arcade Echoes I have 
 omitted very few of th^ poems that appeared in 
 the former edition edited by Mr. Wood ; but I 
 have added quite a number which, in my judg- 
 ment, are well worthy of a place in this col- 
 lection. 
 
 The piece in the former edition entitled " Lee to 
 the Rear " I have omitted, since it was not origin- 
 ally contributed to the Magazine ; and " My Ship " 
 for the same reason. I have published with the 
 pieces in this edition the names of the authors as 
 far as I have been able to discover them, of whom 
 some have already attained to distinction in the 
 field of literature. 
 
 J. W. F. 
 
 Charlottesville, Va., 
 August 15, 1894. 
 
 Thomas Longstreet Wood was born in 
 
 Albemarle County, Virginia, on the 14th day of 
 
 ^ November, 1867. Having acquired a preparatory 
 
 education at a private school in Charlottesville 
 
8 PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 and at the Episcopal High School at Alexandria, 
 Va., he entered the University of Virginia in the 
 year 1887. 
 
 The natural bent of his mind was toward lit- 
 erature, and he became a constant, though not 
 frequent, contributor of prose and poetry to the 
 Virginia University Magazi7ie. He excelled par- 
 ticularly in the delineation of character, ample 
 material for which he drew from the neighbor- 
 hood where he had been born and reared. Two 
 of his stories published in the Magazine won the 
 first place — one taking the prize offered for the 
 best production in prose published during a cer- 
 tain period; the other, entitled " Shiflett's Hol- 
 low," taking the Magazine Medal for the session 
 of 1888 and 1889. 
 
 He was closely connected with and deeply inter- 
 ested in many college organizations, and was an 
 ardent member of the Delta Kappa Epsilon Fra- 
 ternity and one of the founders of the O. W. L. 
 Club. After a stay at the University of three 
 years, he accepted a place as teacher at his Alma 
 Mater, the Episcopal High School, where he 
 remained for two years, equally beloved by 
 teachers and pupils, during which time he con- 
 tributed numerous small articles and poems to 
 some of the leading newspapers of the country 
 — amongst others, the A^ew York Herald and the 
 Detroit Free Press. At the end of the session of 
 1891-92, he returned to Albemarle to seek the rest 
 
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 9 
 
 and quiet which he so much needed; but his con- 
 stitution, which he had taxed too far by his con- 
 tinuous labor, suddenly gave way, and he died on 
 the 31st of July, 1892. 
 
 Witty in conversation, possessed of great liter- 
 ary taste, gentle in character, and enthusiastic in 
 nature, his life was full of promise, and his un- 
 timely death brought grief into many hearts. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 You have in the following pages, gentle reader, 
 a faithful reproduction of student life, thought, and 
 feeling under the arcades. It is not in an exhaust- 
 ive prose essay on The Advantages of Historical 
 Study that we can see how the University men 
 live ; the average article on Napoleon gives us 
 little idea of their thought; and Midnight Reveries 
 are but poor representatives of feeling other than 
 of cold from the '* storm wind without," and the 
 ** gray ashes falling from the dying embers." But 
 in some jingling narrative of dark Calithumpian 
 adventure, the writer of which *no doubt now 
 indites sundry sage and monitory letters to his 
 own son ; in a few tripping, tender lines to some 
 unknown, whose matronly form now probably 
 retains scant traces of the "willowy grace" of 
 yore ; in some burst of poetic passion that gleams 
 through the clouds of glory that we trail ; in a 
 word, in the poetry of youth, there may be plainly 
 seen the lights and shadows, the many joys and 
 the few sorrows, that make up the life, thought, 
 and feeling of that time. 
 
12 PREFACE. 
 
 Artists, physicians, lawyers, editors, may in the 
 following lines have sighed their callow love, 
 breathed their ambitions, laughed at Dame For- 
 tune. The unknown author of some one of these 
 fugitive poems may have passed out into the great 
 literary world, where, however, the books he now 
 writes for money, I warrant, have less of the gen- 
 uine ring than the little natural verses of his 
 "salad days." Another may be sleeping where 
 the grasses wave and whisper over the dust of A 
 Georgia Volunteer, — we do not know. 
 
 That the collection is no larger is due in the 
 first place to lack of space, but also very much 
 to the fact that most of the omitted poems are 
 of the pseudo-Byronic cast, in which "sadness" 
 rhymes with "madness," and only a line divides 
 " breath " from " death." Dark references in the 
 style, and often in the words, of Mr. Poe, to 
 blighted hopes and saddened lives are, we believe, 
 inspired less by mysterious afflictions than by 
 undigested suppers; and longings to flee to sundry 
 distant isles — methods of transportation being no 
 consideration — where lone seas howl as a steady 
 occupation, and false man ne'er comes and 
 woman's eye is absent, arise frequently from the 
 implacable natures of tailors and misunderstand- 
 ings with the washerwoman. I have, conse- 
 quently, been unwilling to drag the effusions of 
 these stricken hearts before the public. 
 
 In conclusion, I would say that if this little 
 
PREFACE. 13 
 
 volume has the effect, no matter in how small 
 a degree, of bringing our University before our 
 people in a new, and, consequently, it is to be 
 hoped, a more prominent light, I shall feel that I 
 have not worked in vain. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Whip-Poor-Will 19 
 
 Lines to My Next-Door Neighbor . . 20 
 
 My Little Classic Divinity ... 22 
 
 Satisfied 25 
 
 The Dog of the Louvre .... 25 
 
 The Proudest Lady 28 
 
 Hidden Chimes 30 
 
 "The Wee Little Thing" . . . .32 
 
 Only a Kiss 33 
 
 The Rested Heart 34 
 
 On the Pond 36 
 
 She Has Drifted Away 37 
 
 The Big Horn of the Range ... 39 
 
 To a Mosquito 42 
 
 The Sun 44 
 
 Long Ago 46 
 
 A Beaux Yeux 48 
 
 The Cavalier 50 
 
 To-morrow Morning 52 
 
 An Old Air 53 
 
 Chateaux en Espagne 55 
 
 My True Love's Wealth . . . .57 
 
 For a Lady Wearing a Lily . . -59 
 
 Transformations 60 
 
 " Mein Liebchen " ..... 63 
 
 Amor Manet 64 
 
l6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "Where?" 65 
 
 "Cherries" 66 
 
 A Woman's Hair 70 
 
 The War of the Roses 71 
 
 In Absence 72 
 
 A Thought 72 
 
 Ma Blonde 73 
 
 The Blue Ridge 74 
 
 On a Picture of M • . • • 75 
 
 Love and Death . . . . . .76 
 
 Foam Pictures 77 
 
 Edelweiss 79 
 
 The Gold String 80 
 
 After the Diploma 82 
 
 A Bit of Human Nature .... 83 
 In the German . . . . . .85 
 
 The Harp-Girl 87 
 
 Plantation Song 88 
 
 Y= Poet to His Ladye Love ... 88 
 
 La Campagne d' Amour 91 
 
 Corking 92 
 
 Friends 93 
 
 To 94 
 
 bonnybel ........ 94 
 
 The Lily and the Brook .... 96 
 
 Adieu 96 
 
 A Toast . 97 
 
 Y^ Ynnkb Spott^ 99 
 
 A Reverie 99 
 
 A Mirage 100 
 
 To 102 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 17 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Modern Olympus .... 
 
 . 103 
 
 At the Opera 
 
 107 
 
 Sal's Towser and My Trouser 
 
 . IIO 
 
 When Shadows Fall .... 
 
 III 
 
 Reflection 
 
 . 112 
 
 Recollections 
 
 113 
 
 And now She's Married .... 
 
 . 115 
 
 Declaration in Assumpsit . 
 
 116 
 
 "God is Eternal Loneliness" 
 
 . 118 
 
 Ballade 
 
 119 
 
 The Last of the Fairies 
 
 . 120 
 
 Life . 
 
 122 
 
 Aunt Phcebe's Remonstrance . 
 
 . 123 
 
 Paraphrase of Horace. Book II., Ode III. 125 
 
 Foreshadowings 
 
 127 
 
 Ballade of Cheerful Verse . 
 
 . 128 
 
 At Dawn 
 
 129 
 
 On Tying Daphne's Shoe 
 
 . 129 
 
 The Flirt 
 
 130 
 
ARCADE ECHOES. 
 
 THE WHIP-POOR-WILL. 
 
 Bird of the eventide, 
 
 From the lone mountain-side 
 Falls thy wild note on my heart with a thrill, 
 
 Bringing up memories, 
 
 Countless and varied, as 
 Falls each sad note on my ear, — " Whip-poor- 
 Will!" 
 
 Mem'ries of early days 
 
 Passed in pure childhood's ways. 
 When naught this heart knew of guile or of ill ; 
 
 Mem'ries of later times, 
 
 When youth to manhood climbs, 
 Steal o'er me now with thy cry, — "Whip-pooi> 
 Will ! " 
 
 Dark, sad, and sorrowful, 
 
 Some of them borrowful 
 Measures of gloom from the shades of the night ! 
 
 Peaceful and happy, too, 
 
 Some which I owe to you, 
 Sprite ! doomed forever to flee from the light. 
 
20 LINES TO MY NEIGHBOR, 
 
 Scenes, long forgotten, now 
 
 Crowd round my throbbing brow, 
 Till it appears that I roam thro' them still; 
 
 Bright as they ever were, 
 
 Come back these scenes of yore. 
 Brought by thy thrilling cry, — oh, Whip-poor- 
 Will! 
 
 Soft as a lover's sigh 
 
 Now comes thy plaintive cry, 
 Mellowed by distance, as flitting at will. 
 
 Leaving the mountain-side, 
 
 Through its dark glens you glide. 
 Seeking, still vainly, some rest, Whip-poor- Will. 
 
 Rest, thou may'st never, bird ! 
 
 For still thy plaint is heard 
 Dying in echoes away on the hill ; 
 
 Till the gray dawn grows bright 
 
 Sadly thou spend'st each night, 
 Wailing thy life away, poor Whip-poor-Will ! 
 
 November, 1859. -^' -^* 
 
 LINES TO MY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. 
 
 If the strange old Indian doctrine is true 
 (The transmigration of souls, I mean), 
 
 I think I can tell the course that you 
 
 Have taken since you on this earth have been. 
 
LINES TO MY NEIGHBOR, 21 
 
 For first you were a shell-fish small 
 In the Mediterranean's purple wave ; 
 
 And you bored and bored in a column tall 
 Till you'd built your house and dug your grave. 
 
 Then next you left the rolling sea, 
 And sought the air on buzzing wing, 
 
 And, as a white-faced bumble-bee, 
 You bored and bored all the sunny spring. 
 
 But 'twere a wearisome narration 
 
 To tell the varied course you ran 
 Through all the grades of all creation 
 
 Until you reached the summit, — man. 
 
 When now you reached this high condition, 
 The fates decreed you a noble home 
 
 In a family holding the first position 
 
 In the mighty seven-hilled city of Rome. 
 
 ^ 
 
 b4hey gave you a priesthood there one day, 
 And then you wrote up over your door, 
 For a sort of a sign (as one might say). 
 One word, and that was " augnror^ 
 
 I will not tell how since that time, 
 With fin or feather, cold or warm, 
 
 Through many a land and many a clime, 
 At last you've reached your present form. 
 
22 MV LITTLE CLASSIC DIVINITY, 
 
 When next you drop this mortal coil, 
 And take a new body on Lethe's shore, 
 
 You'll speculate in kerosene oil, 
 
 And still will your motto be " I Bore." 
 
 January-, t868. PERFORATUS. 
 
 MY LITTLE CLASSIC DIVINITY. 
 
 HENRY HOWARD MORTON TO MISS H. 
 
 Upon Potomac's western shore 
 There dwells a lovely maiden. 
 
 With treasures rare of classic lore 
 Her royal mind is laden. 
 
 And oh ! she is a Hebe fair ! 
 
 Divine in form and feature. 
 With more than Juno's stately air ; 
 
 In sooth, a peerless creature ! 
 
 In whom all classic graces blend. 
 
 This learned little woman ; 
 And, though she wears the Grecian bend. 
 
 Her nose is slightly Roman ! 
 
 Her voice is rich as Sappho's lyre, 
 
 That theme of poets* praises. 
 And in her eyes Minerva's fire 
 
 With dazzling splendor blazes 1 
 
MV LITTLE CLASSIC DIVINITY. 23 
 
 Within the storied Past she lives, 
 
 Converses oft w^ith Cato, 
 And sparkling gems of wisdom gives 
 
 To Sophocles or Plato ! 
 
 She joys to roam along the streams 
 That flov^ through classic ages, 
 
 And revel in the golden dreams 
 Of ancient bards and sages. 
 
 To sigh or seem dejected w^hile 
 
 She sits with sad Tibullus ; 
 Or, in a lighter mood, to smile 
 
 With Terence or Catullus. 
 
 To climb the hill where grew the vine 
 That wreathed the brow of Bacchus, 
 
 Or quaff the old Falernian wine 
 With grim Horatius Flaccus ! 
 
 Or round the walls of Troy to rove 
 
 And gaze with silent wonder, 
 And tremble while Olympian Jove 
 
 Hurls down his bolts of thunder ! 
 
 To weep while sadly pondering o'er 
 
 The fate of proud old Priam. 
 (Whose young son, Paris, was not more 
 
 In love, I swear, than I am !) 
 
24 MV LITTLE CLASSIC DIVINITY. 
 
 And when she hears Queen Dido's woes, 
 
 To melt in female pity, 
 Or laugh while Perseus scourges those 
 
 Who thronged Rome's sinful city. 
 
 And yet for those who sigh for her, 
 The wildest love revealing, — 
 
 For those who'd gladly die for her. 
 She has nor heart nor feeling. 
 
 For though her mind, serene and bold, 
 Drinks deep of classic fountains, 
 
 This maiden's loveless heart is cold 
 As " Greenland's icy mountains ! " 
 
 Or as the moon, which seems to roll 
 
 So frigidly above her ; 
 And though I know she has no soul, 
 
 I cannot choose but love her ! 
 
 O Cupid ! draw your keenest dart. 
 
 Fly swiftly on before me, 
 Transfix her callous, stony heart, 
 
 And cause her to — adore me ! 
 
 February, 1870. HORACE MORDAUNT. 
 
THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE. 25 
 
 SATISFIED. 
 
 O QUESTIONING souI, be still ! 
 
 Calm these vain longings for unbounded lore, 
 
 Which thy weak powers so weary and perplex ; 
 
 Rest thee and wait until 
 
 Thy promised morning dawn, when thou, no more 
 
 Linked to this heavy clay, thy faith shalt vex 
 
 With thy mysteries untried ; 
 
 Thou shalt be satisfied. 
 1871. 
 
 THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE. 
 
 (From the French of Delarique.) 
 
 With gentle tread, with uncovered head, 
 
 Pass by the Louvre gate, 
 Where buried lie the " men of July," 
 And flowers are hung by the passers-by, 
 
 And the dog howls desolate. 
 
 That dog had fought in the fierce onslaught, 
 Had rushed with his master on. 
 
 And both fought well ; 
 
 But the master fell. 
 And behold the surviving one ! 
 
26 THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE, 
 
 By his lifeless clay, 
 Shaggy and gray, 
 
 His fellow-warrior stood ; 
 Nor moved beyond. 
 But mingled fond 
 
 Big tears with his master's blood. 
 
 Vigil he keeps 
 
 By those green heaps 
 
 That tell where heroes lie. 
 No passer-by 
 Can attract his eye, 
 
 For he knows it is not He ! 
 
 At the dawn, when dew 
 Wets the garlands new 
 
 That are hung in this place of mourning 
 He will start to meet 
 The coming feet 
 
 Of him whom he dreamt returning. 
 
 On the grave's wood-cross 
 When the chaplets toss. 
 
 By the blast of midnight shaken, 
 How he howleth ! hark ! 
 From that dwelling dark 
 
 The slain he would fain awaken. 
 
THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE, 27 
 
 When the snow comes fast 
 On the chilly blast, 
 
 Blanching the bleak church-yard, 
 With limbs outspread 
 On the dismal bed 
 
 Of his liege, he still keeps guard. 
 
 Oft in the night, 
 With main and might. 
 
 He strives to raise the stone ; 
 Short respite takes : 
 *' If master wakes 
 
 He'll call me," then sleeps on. 
 
 Of bayonet blades, 
 Of barricades. 
 
 And guns he dreams the most ; 
 Starts from his dream, 
 And then would seem 
 
 To eye a pleading ghost. 
 
 He'll linger there 
 In sad despair 
 
 And die on his master's grave. 
 His home ? — 'tis known 
 To the dead alone, — 
 
 He's the dog of the nameless brave ! 
 
o THE PROUDEST LADY, 
 
 Give a tear to the dead, 
 And give some bread 
 
 To the dog of the Louvre gate ! 
 Where buried He the men of July, 
 And flowers are hung by the passers-by, 
 
 And the dog howls desolate. 
 
 March, 1871. RALPH CECIL. 
 
 THE PROUDEST LADY. 
 
 The Queen is proud on her throne. 
 And proud are her maids so fine ; 
 But the proudest lady that ever was known 
 Is a little lady of mine. 
 
 And oh ! she flouts me, she flouts me, 
 And spurns and scorns and scouts me ; 
 Though I drop on my knee and sue for grace, 
 And beg and beseech with the saddest face, 
 Still ever the same she doubts me. 
 
 When she rides on her nag away, 
 
 By park and road and river, 
 In a little hat so jaunty and gay. 
 Oh ! then she's prouder than ever ! 
 And oh ! what faces, what faces ! 
 What petulant, pert grimaces ! 
 Why, the very pony prances and winks. 
 And tosses his head and plainly thinks 
 He may ape her airs and graces. 
 
THE PROUDEST LADY. 29 
 
 But 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 around me so fairly ! 
 Oh ! her laugh rings out so rarely ! 
 Oh ! she coaxes and nestles and purrs and pries 
 In my puzzled face with her two great eyes, 
 And says, " I love you dearly ! " 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Oh ! the 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. 
 
 Good lack ! she flouts me, she flouts me. 
 And spurns and scorns and scouts 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 ! 
 
 June, 1871. WESTWOOD. 
 
30 HIDDEN CHIMES. 
 
 HIDDEN CHIMES. 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO MISS , OF RICHMOND. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 [Scandinavian traditions tell us that the glacier of Folge Fond 
 overwhelmed seven villages in snow and ice, and yet on Christ- 
 mas-Day and the first day of spring one can hear the bells of 
 the buried towns ringing clearly.] 
 
 Have you heard that legend old, 
 Strange legend ! strangely told, 
 
 How years ago 
 A rushing, dashing glacier hurled 
 A village, deeply hurled. 
 
 Under the snow ? 
 
 But on the peaceful Christmas morn. 
 Day on which our Lord was born, 
 
 Beneath that snow 
 Can be heard a mystic chiming, 
 Bells most sweetly chiming. 
 
 Soft and low. 
 
 Or when the happy springtime 
 Breaks through winter's frost and rime. 
 
 So this legend tells. 
 Can be heard the magic ringing, 
 Joyous, merry ringing. 
 
 Of those bells. 
 
HIDDEN CHIMES, 31 
 
 Like that village swiftly buried, 
 In icy regions deeply buried, 
 
 Are some hearts, 
 From whose depths no gentle feeling, 
 Sacred, holy feeling, 
 
 Ever starts 
 
 Till some chord is set in motion 
 That awakes some fond emotion. 
 
 Which softly swells ; 
 And the heart begins a chime, 
 A soft, melodious chime 
 
 Like those bells, 
 
 Which by gentle thoughts when bidden. 
 Although long they have been hidden. 
 
 Arise once more, 
 And sound from out their depths. 
 Their icy, snowy depths. 
 
 And heavenward soar. 
 
 There is not a heart so deep, 
 Where memories do not sleep 
 
 Which will awake 
 When the proper chord is touched. 
 Gently, softly touched, 
 
 And music make. 
 
32 " THE WEE LITTLE THING:' 
 
 There's no human heart so cold 
 But sometimes 'twill unfold, 
 
 And sweetly sound 
 A note that upward wells, 
 Like those mysterious bells 
 
 Of Folge Fond. 
 
 October, 1871. HeRZOG. 
 
 "THE WEE LITTLE THING." 
 
 WALTER G. CHARLTON. 
 
 There's a wee little thing in this world of ours, 
 And it moveth and moveth the livelong day ; 
 And tho' the sun shines and tho' the storm lowers. 
 It clattereth on with its ceaseless lay ; 
 Over peasant and king 
 
 Its spell it hath flung, — 
 That dear little thing, 
 A woman's tongue ! 
 
 There's a wee little thing in this world of ours. 
 
 And it sparkleth and sparkleth the livelong day; 
 No dew-drop that hangs on the morning flowers 
 Is so beauteous and bright as its beaming ray ; 
 No shield can we bring 
 
 That its shaft can defy, — 
 That dear little thing, 
 A woman's eye ! 
 
ONLY A KISS. ZZ 
 
 There's a wee little thing in this world of ours, 
 
 And it throbbeth and throbbeth the livelong day; 
 And in palace halls, and in leafy bowers, 
 It holdeth alike its potent sway ; 
 Bright joy can it bring, 
 
 Or deep sorrow impart, — 
 That dear little thing, 
 A woman's heart. 
 
 There are many charms in this world of ours, 
 That cluster and shine over Life's long day ; 
 The wealth of the mine, and the statesman's 
 powers, 
 And the laurels won in the bloody fray, — 
 No spell can they fling 
 
 That my bosom can move 
 Like that witching thing, 
 A woman's love ! 
 
 October, 1871. IBYCUS, ESQ. 
 
 ONLY A KISS. 
 
 THOMAS A. SEDDON. 
 
 Only one kiss ! Ah ! why refuse 
 
 To bless an eager lover ? 
 What else those rosy lips should choose 
 
 I'm sure I can't discover. 
 
34 THE RESTED HEART. 
 
 The drifting cloud-banks kiss the sea, 
 Where foam-tipped breakers roar, 
 
 And ocean's ripples, floating free. 
 Kiss all her endless shore. 
 
 The sky of morning blushes deep 
 At the kiss of the coming sun ; 
 
 And a blessing falls with the kiss of sleep, 
 When the weary day is done. 
 
 By breezes kissed, the floweret rare 
 
 To full perfection grows ; 
 And all that's fair in earth or air 
 
 From the kiss of beauty flows. 
 
 Then. let those lips where beauty sleeps 
 
 To love's soft touch awaken, 
 And thrill that chord which silence keeps 
 Till by his presence shaken. 
 February, 1872. A. 
 
 THE RESTED HEART. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 Far, far from land a lone bird flew, 
 And wearied, wings its tiresome flight; 
 
 No place to rest came on its view ; 
 There lay but sea and sky in sight. 
 
THE RESTED HEART. 35 
 
 A speck far in the distant west, 
 
 A sail that closer, nearer grew ; 
 The glad bird saw a place of rest. 
 
 And toward the vessel swiftly flew. 
 
 It lit, it breathed, and there awhile 
 
 Forgot its cares, its weariness ; 
 Saw all around in calmness smile, 
 
 Saw none to harm, all to caress. 
 
 It rests ; then, ere it stretched its wings, 
 And bade the ship a long adieu. 
 
 In thanks the bird a carol sings. 
 Then homeward once again it flew. 
 
 And thus as I, o'er life's dark sea, 
 My humble course in silence trace, 
 
 A moment rested close by thee, — 
 Gazed on thy beauteous, radiant face, — 
 
 Then by thy smile refreshed anew, 
 
 Far on I moved through joy and pain ; 
 
 From rest to labor back I flew. 
 To fight life's battles once again. 
 
 But ere I bid a long farewell, 
 
 Oh ! take this song, though poor it be. 
 To show the thoughts that in me dwell, 
 
 To show my gratitude to thee. 
 
36 ON THE POND. 
 
 And tho' our lives lie far apart, 
 Tho' ne'er on earth we meet again. 
 
 Perhaps it may some joy impart 
 
 To know that thou hast freed from pain 
 
 Some few short moments of my life ; 
 
 And as the ship the bird gave rest, 
 Some hours hast given free from strife. 
 
 Some cares hast driven from my breast. 
 
 And now all's past, but not forgot ; 
 
 And tho* those hours return, oh, never, 
 Leave they in darkness one bright spot 
 Which cheers me on and stays forever. 
 February, 1872. HeRZOG. 
 
 ON THE POND. 
 
 WALTER G. CHARLTON. 
 
 The diamond stars were gleaming 
 
 Through the silver-frosted stems ; 
 On the icy crystals forming, 
 
 Sparkling like a thousand gems ; 
 And the fairy host of winter 
 
 Hushed the scene with beauty's wand, 
 On that cold December evening 
 
 We went skating on the pond. 
 
SHE HAS DRIFTED AWAY. 37 
 
 Laughing eyes were peeping slyly 
 
 From the folds of wrappers warm ; 
 Merry voices rang out gayly, 
 
 Making heart-aches with their charm ; 
 Graceful forms were moving lightly, 
 
 But my eyes, with glances fond, 
 Sought alone the sylph-like graces 
 
 Of my partner on the pond. 
 
 That night's splendor faded 
 
 Like some bright poetic thought, 
 But our hearts have kept the lesson 
 
 That its silent glory taught ; 
 For the love we swore each other, 
 
 As we felt the mutual bond, 
 Twines its silken folds as tightly 
 
 As when skating on the pond. 
 
 February, 1872. 
 
 SHE HAS DRIFTED AWAY. 
 
 TO MISS A. m'l. , OF ST. LOUIS. 
 
 EDWIN JACOBS. 
 L 
 
 She has drifted away to Heaven's shore, 
 To the shadowy home of the seraph land. 
 
 And the white sails flashed as her bark went o'er; 
 We saw as we wept by the shining strand. 
 
3^ SHE HAS DRIFTED AWAY. 
 
 Oh ! our thoughts were full of the after-years, 
 As she smiled her adieu o'er the dark wave's 
 crest, 
 And our eyes drooped downward 'mid sorrow's 
 tears. 
 As she drifted away — away to her rest. 
 
 II. 
 
 She drifted away ere her girlhood's morn 
 
 Wore on to the beauty of blushing day — 
 Like a tender violet rudely torn 
 
 From the flower-crowned sceptre of rosy May ; 
 Ere her young heart's freshness grew sore and dim, 
 
 Or the cherub of peace ceased to gladden her 
 breast, 
 Ere wild woe had entered Hope's dying hymn, 
 
 She drifted away — away to her rest. 
 
 III. 
 
 She drifted away when autumn came, 
 
 With brilliant hues of crimson and gold, — 
 When the forests were lit with their wings of flame, 
 
 And the wandering winds blew drear and cold, — 
 With her soft eyes bright as empyreal fires, 
 
 And her white hands folded across her breast, 
 To the mild sweet music of angels' lyres, 
 
 She has drifted away to her rest. 
 
 October, 1872. JUGATINUS. 
 
THE BIG HORN OF THE RANGE. 39 
 THE BIG HORN OF THE RANGE. 
 
 GOODWIN H. WILLIAMS. 
 
 If you'll listen, fellow-students, to the tale which 
 
 I relate, 
 You will know as much as I can show about the 
 
 facts I state ; 
 While other poets sing of Love and many things 
 
 as strange, 
 I have taken up the subject of " The Big Horn 
 
 of the Range." 
 
 I. 
 
 It is a mammoth " dyking horn," five feet and 
 
 more in height, 
 A patriarch 'mid smaller horns, v^hich meaner 
 
 souls delight, — 
 The tinners bold of Charlottesville, yes, every 
 
 mother's son, 
 Combined their art to build it, and at last their 
 
 vv^ork is done. 
 'Twas purchased by a Sophomore, who " bunked " 
 
 on Monroe Hill, 
 Who practised on it night and day, until it made 
 
 him ill ; 
 From mouth to mouth and hand to hand its owner- 
 ship did change, 
 Until at last 'twas settled as " The Big Horn of 
 
 the Range." 
 
40 THE BIG HORN OF THE RANGE, 
 
 II. 
 
 One night when all the world was still, and silence 
 
 hovered round, 
 O'er hill and dale, o'er flow and fill, was heard an 
 
 awful sound ; 
 So wild and stern, yet full and clear, it rode upon 
 
 the blast, 
 That Monticello caught it up and back the echo 
 
 cast. 
 There w^as a freshman chap who lived at No. lo 
 
 Carr's Hill,— 
 He thought it was the judgment trump and 
 
 went and made his will ; 
 But while he strove his scattered wits in order to 
 
 arrange, 
 A friend rushed in and told him 'twas *• The Big 
 
 Horn of the Range." 
 
 III. 
 
 A " high-toned calicoist '* sat upon a cushioned 
 
 seat, 
 Beside him leans his " Dulcie " dear, so young and 
 
 fair and sweet ; 
 His heart was pierced by Cupid's shaft, and as he 
 
 "made his speech," 
 Before she softly whispered '• Yes," there came 
 
 that awful screech. 
 
THE BIG HORN OF THE RANGE. 41 
 
 The lady fainted straight away, her father entered 
 
 quick, 
 The " calicoist " seized his hat and swiftly " cut 
 
 his stick," 
 And all that night at Ambie's, 'mid his frequent 
 
 draughts of " corn," 
 These words alone were audible, " Dog gone that 
 
 big tin horn ! " 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 So all ye youthful freshmen chaps, who are so 
 
 jolly green, 
 Don't think that nothing else exists except what 
 
 you have seen ; 
 And you, ye " calicoist men," who cut so great a 
 
 dash. 
 Rely on something else besides a *• hard cheek " 
 
 or moustache, — 
 Some men don't know the reason why the " Tem- 
 perance " bestows 
 By virtue of its membership so jolly red a 
 
 nose, — 
 Why, 'tis the "nature of the beast," and it will 
 
 never change 
 Until the echoes hear no more " The Big Horn of 
 
 the Range." 
 December, 1872. ** CaUSTICUS." 
 
42 TO A MOSQUITO. 
 
 TO A MOSQUITO. 
 
 AFTER BURNS. 
 
 L. V. MILLER. 
 
 Ye here again ! ye lang-legg'd deev'l ! 
 Ye bizzin', bummin' imp o' evil — 
 Haud in yer gab and cantin' snur'l, 
 
 Or gin' the wa' 
 I'll plaister ye if ye're no' ceev'l, 
 
 And stop yer jaw. 
 
 What brings ye here ? I'd like to ken, — 
 To bild and pester honest men, 
 To gar them think their latter en* 
 
 Is drawin' near, 
 And scart and claw like some auld hen. 
 
 And curse and swear ? 
 
 Gae, tak' that music o' the de'il, 
 
 And serenade some ither chiel — 
 
 Some tough-skinned wretch that canna feel 
 
 Your cursed claws. 
 Or sinner that has fatten'd well 
 
 On broken laws. 
 
 Gang ow're the road, and ring the bell — 
 Ye'll find a rascal like yersel' — 
 
TO A MOSQUITO. 43 
 
 A politician — ^jag him well^ 
 
 And sting him sair — 
 He's sic a backbiter himsel* 
 
 Ye'll ne'er bild mair. 
 
 Or there's an auld maid doon the street — 
 Ye'll find her tough, but guid to eat — 
 Ye'll easy ken her when ye meet — 
 
 She's o' your trade ; 
 O' tea and scandal strong and sweet 
 
 Her bluid is made. 
 
 Jist tak* a pattern by the flea, 
 That has his bite, the' waits a wee 
 Afore he wets the ither ee* 
 
 Or loups aboot ; 
 And, puir thing, 's aye prepar'd to dee 
 
 When he's fand oot. 
 
 Or else the decent, saucy bug, 
 
 Wha keeps himsel' sae dower and snug, 
 
 An's no aye roarin' in yer lug 
 
 His blasted airs. 
 But jist lies doon like any dug 
 
 An' says his pray'rs. 
 
 But ye, ye grinnin', sneakin' braggart, 
 Ye greedy, ill-far'd, suckin' blackguard, 
 
44 THE SUN-. 
 
 Wid body skinny, lang-, and haggard, 
 
 And bluidy fang, 
 For a* yer boastin*, blovvin' swagger, 
 
 I'll stop yer sang. 
 
 So dinna fash yersel' to stay. 
 
 And waste yer time wi' me the day — 
 
 I tell ye, freen*, jist gang yer way, 
 
 Or mine yer heed. 
 Ae skelp frae me wad stop yer pay 
 
 And strike ye deed. 
 
 December, 1872. INNIS MORE. 
 
 THE SUN. 
 
 [Imitated from certain verses by William Wirt Palmer in 
 The Week. 
 
 A lucubration of the physico-philosophical muse, intended to 
 illustrate the hypothesis of Laplace, which is to theologians a 
 stumbling-block and to idiots foolishness.] 
 
 Through the misty void of the formless waste 
 
 The arms of night were thrown. 
 And the pulsing wave flew on apace 
 
 To find its future home ; 
 My glorious globe soon closed its orb, 
 
 My eternal race began, 
 And in my whirls I scattered worlds 
 
 And formed a home for man. 
 
THE SUN. 45 
 
 The fair earth grew, as 'round it flew, 
 
 The darling of mine eyes ; 
 I painted its flowers and tinged its bowers, 
 
 And flushed its gorgeous skies ; 
 I wrapped the cloud like a royal shroud 
 
 About the mountain's pride, 
 And made the cloud fill the clear springs of the 
 rill 
 
 That silvered the mountain-side. 
 
 In the crystal heart of the diamond I dart 
 
 A beam of shivering light. 
 And mine 'tis to enter the red ruby's centre 
 
 And kindle a fire there bright. 
 The opal's soft shimmer is naught but my glimmer, 
 
 And the pearl in the garnish of queens 
 Owes its tender haze to my radiant blaze 
 
 That gleams in the emerald greens. 
 
 I raised the clear water that tumbles in laughter ^ 
 
 From the crags of the mountain hoar, 
 And mine is the power that hath wealth for its 
 dower, 
 
 And feeds both the rich and the poor. 
 And the vales that are rife with the vigor of life 
 
 Draw their force from the warmth of my breast, 
 That lends tenderest dyes to the fair maiden's 
 eyes, 
 
 And spreads in all nature a feast. 
 
4^ LONG AGO, 
 
 Even genius doth owe to my power its glow : 
 
 Life itself finds its source in my heart ; 
 And all that I cherish, without me would perish, — 
 
 I freely give each one his part. 
 Some day the fair errant shall seek out her parent. 
 
 And my bosom once more shall receive 
 To its ardent heart the courser fleet 
 
 That now on its beauty doth live. 
 
 March, 1873. 
 
 LONG AGO. 
 
 C. B. SINCLAIR. 
 I. 
 
 There's a beautiful isle in the Long Ago, 
 
 All flooded with golden light ; 
 And a river that glides by the magic shore. 
 
 Whose waters are wondrous bright ; 
 And a bark that moves with snowy sails. 
 
 And the music of silver oar. 
 That carries us back to the shining gates 
 
 Of that beautiful Past once more ! 
 And every heart holds some sweet dream 
 
 Of that beautiful Long Ago. 
 
 IL 
 
 There were bright hopes nursed in that Long 
 Ago; 
 Fair flowers have perished there ; 
 
LONG AGO, 47 
 
 And the walls of the beautiful Past are hung 
 
 With pictures bright and fair ; 
 And, oh ! there is soon for our feet to tread 
 
 The path of these by-gone years ! 
 There are joys that bloom in Memory's field, 
 
 And a fount for our bitter tears ; 
 And that fount is filled with hallowed tears 
 
 We wept in that Long Ago ! 
 
 III. 
 
 There are happy dreams the heart holds dear — 
 
 Sweet dreams of Long Ago ! 
 And sacred tears for the perished joys 
 
 That will return no more ; 
 And thus in the tangled web of life 
 
 We weave our smiles and tears, 
 And cling to the holy memories 
 
 That hang around departed years ! 
 Ah ! drop the silken curtain now 
 
 Of the beautiful Long Ago ! * 
 
 IV. 
 
 Shut out the light of those vanished years, 
 Close the door of the Past again, 
 
 And hush the yearning thoughts that rise 
 To give the bosom pain. 
 
 Ah ! roll the heavy stone against 
 That sepulchre — the Heart ! 
 
4^ A BEAUX YEUX. 
 
 Why should these buried forms again 
 
 To life and beauty start ? 
 The Future may hold some dream as bright 
 
 As those of Long Ago ! 
 
 May, 1873. 
 
 A BEAUX YEUX. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 *' To bonny eyes," the toast went 'round, 
 
 With mirth, and wine, and laughter. 
 When merry jest and din had drown'd 
 
 All thoughts of sad hereafter. 
 " To bonny eyes," — and then I thought 
 Of hers I loved, with feeling fraught. 
 From whence the soul, so fair and true, 
 Shone forth as from deep seas the blue. 
 
 " To bonny eyes," — it was the time 
 
 When mirth and madness soaring, 
 With gay wild jest and wilder rhyme, 
 
 Set all the table roaring ; 
 Amid the loud resounding glee 
 A vision fair came back to me, 
 A sweet pure face and bonny eyes. 
 Like sunshine seen thro' azure skies. 
 
A BEAUX YEUX. 49 
 
 *'To bonny eyes," — each tongue was fraught 
 
 With eager lover's praises, 
 While I alone sat still and thought 
 
 Of her with eyes like daisies ; 
 And as the brimming cup went 'round, 
 With song, and jest, and merry sound, 
 I, of the joyous, laughing crowd, 
 Alone pledged not her eyes aloud. 
 
 I deemed that on these lips of mine 
 
 *Twas heartless desecration 
 To blend her pure sweet name and wine 
 
 In heedless dissipation ; 
 And so amidst the din and riot, 
 My tongue alone of all kept quiet, 
 And from my chair I did not rise 
 To pledge aloud her bonny eyes. 
 
 But in my heart of hearts I said 
 
 A thousand times, " God bless her ! " 
 And with mute lip and bended head. 
 
 Prayed angel hands caress her. 
 And keep her soul as pure and fair 
 As lilies born 'neath Summer's air, 
 And make me fit some time to win 
 Her guileless heart, so free from sin. 
 
 God grant that often, as to-night, 
 
 When idly bent and sinning, 
 Those bonny eyes may rise in sight. 
 
 So holy, true, and winning, 
 
 4 
 
5° THE CAVALIER. 
 
 And with one gentle, loving glance. 
 Awake me from vain folly's trance, 
 And then in heart oft o'er and o'er 
 I'll pledge " to bonny eyes " e'er more. 
 1872. Zete. 
 
 THE CAVALIER. 
 
 GOODWIN H. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Hurrah ! There's fever in my blood ; I feel the 
 
 sparkling wine 
 Like lightning coursing through my veins — brave 
 
 vintage of the Rhine ! 
 My heated temples throb and beat ; the sparkle in 
 
 mine eye 
 Is like the eagle's 'mid the clouds when first he 
 
 soars on high. 
 My charger neighs — I hear his hoofs, like thunder, 
 
 beat the earth. 
 Ho ! bring my spurs of Milan steel and tighten up 
 
 each girth ; 
 I've far to ride and much to dare before the day 
 
 comes in — 
 Here's one more beaker to King Charles, and may 
 
 the Good Cause win ! 
 
 The chill night wind must dry the dew upon my 
 
 heated brow ; 
 I've neither home nor kith nor kin upon the broad 
 
 earth now. 
 
THE CAVALIER. 51 
 
 My old gray tower is sacked and burned, my 
 
 friends and kinsmen slain, 
 And naught is left but my good sword a heritage 
 
 to gain. 
 Whene'er I see that ruined tower and desolate 
 
 hearthstone, 
 I vow to heaven for every pang, a Roundhead's 
 
 dying groan — 
 And well they know I've kept my oath. My merry 
 
 men, fall in ! 
 Oiie ringing cheer for brave King Charles, and 
 
 may the Good Cause win ! 
 
 My vengeance, like the levin brand, goes rushing 
 
 through their camp ; 
 The death lights flame across the moors and 
 
 flicker to our tramp — 
 For hell holds revel high to-night ; my broadsword 
 
 in its sheath 
 Grows heated like my lava blood to carve a feast 
 
 for Death. 
 And we sweep on, and on, and on, till like a mighty 
 
 flood 
 We burst upon the sleeping foe and cool our steel 
 
 in blood ; 
 And while the raging fight goes on, above the 
 
 battle's din 
 We hear, "Hurrah for brave King Charles, and 
 
 may the Good Cause win ! " 
 
52 TO-MORROW MORNING. 
 
 Our waving plumes through hall and camp, our 
 broadswords true and strong, 
 
 Our King, our Country, and ourFaith, alone, to us 
 belong ; 
 
 We have not much to lose, I ween, by war's turmoil 
 and strife. 
 
 For Beauty's witching spell is o'er, and all we ask 
 is — Lite. 
 
 Our chargers are our only care, our joy the mid- 
 night ride. 
 
 The headlong, dashing, crushing charge, and — 
 naught on earth beside. 
 
 And when the tide goes o'er our heads and heav- 
 enly joys begin, 
 
 We'll pray, " God save our brave King Charles, 
 and may the Good Cause win." 
 
 TO-MORROW MORNING. 
 
 A. C. GORDON. 
 
 A LITTLE prattler, whose young life 
 
 Is just now at its dawning, 
 When questioned of a future hope. 
 
 Makes answer, " Morrer-mornin'." 
 
 ** When will you be a lady proud, 
 
 Poor waxen dollies scorning. 
 And have as playthings diamonds bright ? ' 
 
 Says, tersely, " Morrer-mornin'." 
 
AN OLD AIR. S3 
 
 *' When will you ride in coach and four, 
 No broken broomstick mourning ? " 
 
 With brightening eyes she quick replies, 
 "Sometime — to-morrer-mornin'." 
 
 With her, indeed, 'tis almost one, — 
 The gloaming and the dawning, — 
 
 A few short hours of happy sleep 
 Divide her night and morning. 
 
 To older heads than her's the thought 
 Sends comfort, and yet warning ; 
 
 The wall between our life and death 
 Will fall — to-morrow morning. 
 
 1875- 
 
 G. 
 
 AN OLD AIR. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 That simple air you just have played 
 So tenderly, my dearest maid, 
 
 Has set my heart retracing 
 The memories of a vanished June, 
 When last I listened to the tune, 
 Which then from lips as red as thine 
 Stole softly in this heart of mine, 
 
 Each grief with joy replacing. 
 
54 AN OLD AIR, 
 
 It was in summers long ago, 
 
 When my young life first felt the glow 
 
 Of love I just had spoken, 
 That one whose voice, to music set. 
 In strains that haunt my mem'ry yet, 
 Sang to me sweetly that same air, 
 And touched her harp with fingers fair. 
 
 Until a string was broken. 
 
 Then half in laughter, half in fear, 
 Her eyes suggestive of a tear, 
 
 " 'Tis thus," she cried, "oh, lover ! 
 My heart amidst its joys would break, 
 Didst thou my fond love once forsake ; 
 Nor could some skilful master-hand 
 Again unite its severed band, 
 
 Or its lost song recover ! " 
 
 Ah me ! The flowers of many a June 
 Have hid her grave, and still that tune 
 
 Old mem'ries will awaken. 
 And I have learned since then to jest, 
 And hide a sorrow in my breast — 
 To cover close life's vacant spot. 
 And suffer still man's saddest lot — 
 
 To feel myself forsaken. 
 
 And I have learned as well this thing : 
 That hearts break not as snaps a string. 
 Without a moment's warning ; 
 
CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. 55 
 
 But rather, as years onward flow, 
 They sound each note of gladness low — 
 Until the last, so faint, doth seem 
 Like distant music in a dream. 
 
 Which melts to naught at morning. 
 
 March, 1875. ZETE. 
 
 CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. 
 
 A. C. GORDON. 
 
 "Castles in Spain." No yellow gold 
 
 Weighs heavy on my hands ; 
 And yet I have a wealth untold — 
 
 Castles in foreign lands; 
 High castles, reared with cunning skill, 
 
 These all my wealth contain. 
 And oh ! what riches they that fill 
 
 My grand "chateaux in Spain." 
 
 For all about their gardens gay 
 
 Rare flowers are blossoming, 
 And roses all the live-long day 
 
 A heavy fragrance fling 
 Upon the balmy summer air. 
 
 And on grass-plots they rain 
 White showers of petals, — over there 
 
 In my •* chateaux in Spain." 
 
5^ CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE. 
 
 'Tis only there that my fond breast 
 
 Hath gained its perfect bliss ; 
 'Tis only there — love all confessed — 
 
 Red rosebud lips I kiss. 
 'Tis only there a sovereign king 
 
 Of dreamy eyes I reign ; 
 Ah ! love hath sweetest blossoming 
 
 In castles built " in Spain." 
 
 'Tis only there my eager palm 
 
 Caresseth raven hair ; 
 'Tis only there that Gilead's balm 
 
 Lives in the enchanted air ; 
 'Tis only there that dreamy eyes 
 
 Look love to mine again, 
 And warm lips whisper soft replies 
 
 In my " chateaux in Spain." 
 
 Blissful enough the hours, I ween, 
 
 Lived in the enchanted air ; 
 Lovely the fairy form and mien. 
 
 The eyes, the raven hair 
 Close braided to the dainty head, — 
 
 But peace ! why thus profane 
 With words the happy life I've led 
 
 In my " chateaux in Spain " ? 
 
 When my high castles vanish all 
 
 Into their former air, 
 The fragile fabric's ruthless fall 
 
 Fills all my heart with care ; 
 
MY TRUE-LOVE' S WEALTH, 57 
 
 But soon the care is gone, for Love 
 
 Binds fancy in her chain, 
 And rears once more — earth's woes above — 
 
 New castles "out in Spain." 
 
 April, 1875. ^ 
 
 MY TRUE-LOVE'S WEALTH. 
 
 My true-love hath no wealth, they say, 
 But when they do I tell them nay ; 
 For she hath wealth of nut-brown hair 
 
 That falleth far her waist below, 
 And clusters round her shoulders fair, 
 
 Like shadow upon driven snow. 
 
 My true-love hath no wealth, they say, 
 But when they do I tell them nay ; 
 For she hath eyes so soft and bright, 
 
 Such depth of love within them lies 
 That stars in heaven would lose their light 
 
 When placed beside my true-love's eyes. 
 
 My true-love hath no wealth, they say, 
 But when they do I tell them nay ; 
 For oh ! she hath such dainty hands. 
 
 So snowy white, so wee and small, 
 That had I wealth of Ophir's lands. 
 
 For one of them I'd give it all. 
 
58 MV TRUE-LOVE'S WEALTH. 
 
 My true-love hath no wealth, they say. 
 But when they do I tell them nay ; 
 For sure she hath a face so fair, — 
 
 Such winsome light around it plays, 
 For worldly wealth I nothing care, 
 
 So I can look upon her face. 
 
 My true-love hath no wealth, they say, 
 But when they do I tell them nay ; 
 For endless wealth of mind hath she, 
 
 A heart so gentle, true, and pure. 
 Her riches, they as countless be 
 
 As shells upon the ocean's shore. 
 
 My true-love hath no wealth, they say. 
 
 But when they do I tell them nay ; 
 
 The sweet-brier bough hath less of grace, 
 
 And on wild violets when she treads, 
 They turn to look into her face, 
 
 And scarcely bow their tiny heads. 
 
 My true-love hath no wealth, they say, 
 But when they do I tell them nay ; 
 For oh ! she hath herself, you see, 
 And that is more than worlds to me. 
 
 December, 1875. ^ ^~ 
 
FOR A LADY WEARING A LILY. 59 
 FOR A LADY WEARING A LILY. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 The sound of merry feet within the hall, 
 And music sighing as for wasted hours, 
 
 The murmurous tinkle of the fountain's fall. 
 The wafted sweetness of exotic flowers. 
 
 All, all, were in the house, and midst them there, 
 
 My lady with a lily in her hair. 
 
 A pure white flower which did seem to pale 
 With sorrow simply, that its lustrous sheen 
 
 To match the ivory of her brow did fail. 
 And seen beside her beauty was unseen ; 
 
 As pearl's soft splendors, midst bright diamonds 
 set. 
 
 Are e'en unnoticed, though all beauteous yet. 
 
 An emblem of the truth, and worn by one 
 Whose life could fitly all its types express ; 
 
 The beauty of whose soul as far outshone 
 The radiance even of her loveliness. 
 
 As her own matchless face, "divinely fair," 
 
 Outshone the lily in her sunny hair. 
 
 For midst earth's follies, as they tempting lure. 
 Untarnished by their touch, or sland'rous breath, 
 
 She walks, contrasted with our sin, as pure 
 As lilies laid upon the breast of death ; 
 
6o TRANSFORMA TIONS. 
 
 And sweet, calm thoughts dwell round her, and 
 
 abide 
 With those who walk life's pathways by her side. 
 
 Ere long the merry feet must weary tread 
 In sterner marches, 'gainst an angry storm ; 
 
 The flowers all wither ere the night is dead. 
 And time spares not the loveliest face or form ; 
 
 Yet in my heart a vision lingers e'er, 
 
 My lady with a lily in her hair. 
 
 God grant her life a melody may flow, 
 
 In rhythmic measures set to notes of glee. 
 
 Without a discord, as the years shall grow, 
 Until the years themselves shall cease to be. 
 
 And then, beyond Time's borders, may she wear 
 
 A fadeless crown of lilies in her hair ! 
 
 February, 1876. ZETE. 
 
 TRANSFORMATIONS. 
 
 A. C. GORDON. 
 
 It is a gala night, and I, 
 Among the crowd, not of it. 
 
 Sit dumb in loud-mouthed revelry 
 And watch the eyes that love it. 
 
TRA NSFORMA TIONS. 6 1 
 
 Upon the pulsing summer air 
 
 The weird waltz-music quivers, 
 Whose throbbings to my spirit bear 
 
 The flow of rushing rivers. 
 
 To long-slept fancies it gives new birth, 
 
 To dreams that a dead past cherished ; 
 New fragrance to blossoming flowers of earth, 
 
 Whose beauty erewhile perished. 
 And to visions of bygone summer niglits, 
 
 With their star-beams all a-quiver, 
 And radiant faces and blessed lights, 
 
 That have died from earth forever. 
 
 Now riseth some form of the old Romance, 
 
 Some song rings soft and tender ; 
 Cometh some duchess of feudal France, 
 
 Some king in his purple splendor. 
 But over them all an Undine face 
 
 Smileth or weepeth ever. 
 Where a lithe form moves in its elfin grace ; 
 
 And I hear the Danube river. 
 
 The wail of the music, the faint perfumes. 
 
 The flashing of wondrous faces, 
 The shimmer of lace and the wealtli of blooms 
 
 Which beauty's proud form graces, 
 I note, but one only mine eyes pursue, 
 
 There's another arm about her, — 
 I know she's as pure as the virgin dew, 
 
 And I never dream to doubt her. 
 
62 TRANSFORMA TIONS. 
 
 When the dance-music ends, and when 
 
 The billowy dance is ended, 
 In my heart the '* Danube's " melting strains 
 
 With her fairy form are blended ; 
 Ever I hear the pleasant sound 
 
 Of the rushing river water, 
 Till she seems to me, in her lissome grace, 
 
 Some Erl-King's Undine daughter. 
 
 Little I heed the babbling crowd, 
 
 And their light words lightly spoken ; 
 I watch the gleam in her changeful eyes, 
 
 And take it as a token. 
 The Erl-King's daughter glides away 
 
 With the hush of the swirling river, 
 Her dark eyes change into burning stars 
 
 That glow in heaven forever. 
 
 The fantasie fades. Once more she seems 
 
 But a fickle fashion's creature ; 
 I only know, out of all that throng, 
 
 Her woman's tender nature ; 
 I only see the love and trust 
 
 Concealed 'neath her careless seeming, 
 The wealth that her happy young heart holds ; 
 
 And so — I go on dreaming. 
 
 When she passes, a perfume scents the air 
 With the fragrance of her kisses ; 
 
 It comes from the jasmine flower that lies 
 Asleep in her sheeny tresses ; 
 
'' MEIN LIE B CHEN r 6$ 
 
 And a spray of the snowy jasmine rests 
 
 Upon her heaving bosom, — 
 As I catch the breath of the odorous flowers 
 
 She seems a jasmine blossom. 
 
 Again the music. Again I hear 
 
 The sound of the river water ; 
 I see as before the Undine face 
 
 Of the Erl-King's elfin daughter ; 
 Her eyes wear the lustre of Paradise stars, 
 
 White jasmines twine about her ; 
 Her heart beats close to another's now, 
 
 Yet I never dream to doubt her. 
 May, 1876. X. 
 
 "MEIN LIEBCHEN." 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 C. W. R. SAVAGE. 
 
 Awake ! for the moonbeams 
 That rest on thy pillow, 
 And bathe in thy tresses of soft yellow gold, 
 Are love's sweetest heralds, 
 And to thee shall whisper 
 The story, dear Gretchen, I often have told. 
 Oh, list, for they tell of a lover so true — 
 Ach, du Liebchen, 
 Ach, du Diebchen 
 Meines Herzens Ruh' ! 
 
64 AMOR MANET. 
 
 Come, open thy casement — 
 The song of thy minstcel 
 Shall link with the present the dreams of the past. 
 Oh, list to love's pleading, 
 Leave not my heart bleeding, 
 Come, open thy casement, the night's dying fast. 
 Why hide from thy lover thy eyes' tender blue ? 
 Ach, du Liebchen, 
 Ach, du Diebchen 
 Meines Herzens Ruh' ! 
 
 Oh, come, while with fragrance 
 The night's dewy zephyrs 
 Are wreathing the fiow'rets with orient pearls. 
 Oh, come, ere in roseate 
 Tints of the morning 
 The day-god his glorious banner unfurls ! 
 Come thou to my heart, as to night comes the dew, 
 Ach, du Liebchen, 
 Ach, du Diebchen 
 Meines Herzens Ruh' ! 
 November, 1876. ReaVEL. 
 
 AMOR MANET. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 Ah ! Well-a-day ! 
 The sweetest melody 
 
'' WHERE V 65 
 
 Dies out loo soon ; 
 
 Heigh-ho ! 
 
 The roses' glow 
 Fades with June. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 
 Our weariest moments pass 
 
 Too swiftly by ; 
 
 Ah, me ! 
 
 All joys that be, 
 Be but to die. 
 
 Yet love still stays. 
 E'en as in pristine days, 
 Though all in vain ; 
 
 And oh ! 
 
 Its joy and woe 
 E'er remain. 
 Charlottesville, Va., November, 1876. ZeTE. 
 
 "WHERE?" 
 
 C. W. R. SAVAGE. 
 
 I STOOD where robed priest did chant 
 In mournful notes a solemn prayer ; 
 
 Where swelled majestic organ tones 
 And fragrant incense filled the air ; 
 
 5 
 
66 " cherries:' 
 
 Where all-resplendent altars shone 
 
 In light than earthly light more fair ; 
 I lowly bowed and tried to pray. 
 
 My soul refused its duty ! " Where, 
 Where shall I seek my God ? " I cried. 
 
 An angel answered my despair: 
 " Erect a temple in thy heart, 
 
 And worship thy Creator there /" 
 November, 1876. REAVEL. 
 
 "CHERRIES." 
 
 C. W. R. SAVAGE. 
 
 I. 
 
 In his easy chair reclining, 
 
 Sat Sir Tristien, young and fair ; 
 
 Never thought he of repining, 
 All his visions light as air. 
 
 II. 
 
 Up the foot-path, through the gateway, 
 Up the stately marble stair. 
 Sunburned hands and feet all bare, 
 
 Came a little peasant maiden, 
 Blushing 'neath her golden hair. 
 
** CHERRIESr 67 
 
 III. 
 
 "Cherries ? " said the little maiden. 
 
 •' No, begone ! " Sir Tristien cried. 
 " Cherries ! Ah, my little fair one, 
 
 Place your basket by my side !" 
 
 IV. 
 Gazing on the tempting cherries, 
 
 Then into the maiden's eyes — 
 '• Which are redder, cheeks or cherries ? " 
 
 Thought Sir Tristien, in surprise. 
 
 V. 
 
 " And which sweeter ? Ah ! I'll taste them ! 
 
 There, don't tremble, little dear; 
 Sweeter far than all your cherries 
 
 Are the charms your blushes bear ! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 Down the foot-path, through the gateway, 
 Down the stately marble stair, 
 Sunburned hands and feet all bare, 
 
 Passed a little peasant maiden, 
 Blushing 'neath her golden hair. 
 
 VII. 
 Far adown the dusty highway, 
 
 Through the waving meadow-grass, 
 Tristien watched the little maiden, 
 
 Saw her with her cherries pass. 
 
6B '' cherries:' 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Pretty child," said fair Sir Tristien, 
 " Though she's of the humble crowd." 
 
 " Oh, how handsome ! Oh, how noble ! " 
 Sighed the maiden, half aloud. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Summer passed, and balmy autumn 
 Fringed the forest leaves with gold ; 
 
 Winter came, and round the hearthstone 
 Many wondrous tales were told. 
 
 X. 
 
 Gazing in the glowing firelight 
 Sat a maiden pale and calm ; 
 
 Tight she held the silver shilling 
 Tristien pressed into her palm. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Far across the chilly moorland. 
 O'er the fields all white with snow, 
 
 Came the sound of jingling sleigh-bells, 
 Rippling laughter, music's flow. 
 
 XII. 
 
 In Sir Tristien's knightly homestead 
 Stately forms were seen to stand — 
 
 Noble ladies, courtly gallants. 
 All the proudest of the land. 
 
" cherries:' 69 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Up the foot-path, through the gateway. 
 Up the icy marble stair, 
 Trembling hands and feet all bare, 
 
 Came a little peasant maiden, 
 Deadly pale, yet wondrous fair ; 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Paused beneath the ancient archway, 
 Knelt beneath the window-pane. 
 
 Freezing, dying little maiden, 
 Paused and looked, and gazed again. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Light the snow-flake fell upon her ; 
 
 Chilly winds and music's sweep 
 Hushed the little blue-eyed maiden 
 
 Into death's unbroken sleep. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And that night, Sir Tristieo, dreaming, 
 Thought he saw a maiden fair, 
 Sunburned hands and feet all bare. 
 Blushing 'neath her golden hair. 
 Whisper, "Cherries ? " — thought he kissed her. 
 Watched her form until he missed her. 
 Far adown the dusky road. 
 April, 1877. ReAVEL. 
 
70 A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
 
 A WOMAN'S HAIR. 
 
 P. LEA THOM. 
 " Only a woman's hair/'— Swift. 
 
 Only a woman's hair — 
 
 But a woman's royal dower ; 
 
 And the canvas has glowed with its grace, 
 And the poets have sung its power. 
 
 Only a woman's hair — 
 
 And she wears no other crown ; 
 
 Then pardon the womanly pride 
 In its wealth of gold and brown. 
 
 Only a woman's hair — 
 
 But braided with womanly skill, 
 
 And shading a face so fair, 
 Has led them captive at will. 
 
 And 'tis only a woman's hair. 
 
 The token when lovers part. 
 But the silken tress is worn 
 
 Next to the manly heart. 
 
 And so a woman's hair 
 
 Is pledge of a love and a life,- 
 
 Deed for that wonderful realm — 
 The loyal heart of a wife. 
 
THE WAR OF THE ROSES. 7 1 
 
 And if some day this shining tress, 
 
 So soft and sunny and bright, 
 Shall be hallowed by kisses and tears, 
 
 And laid away from the light, 
 
 Still will a woman's hair 
 
 Link the heart with the dead, 
 And still will the banner of love 
 
 Be furled o'er the precious head. 
 May, X877. Lea. 
 
 THE WAR OF THE ROSES. 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 
 Within her cheek the red rose and the white 
 So fairly mingle, it must be the best 
 That both should conquer in the equal fight, 
 And as they mingle put all strife at rest ; 
 For blushes as they come seem half ashamed, 
 And paleness steals from 'neath the radiant glow, 
 Till like carnations in the drifted snow, 
 Which is the brightest none can ever know. 
 Ah ! had she lived five hundred years ago, 
 Sweet truce had ne'er been broken, treason blamed, 
 Nor York nor Lancaster had struck a blow, 
 But both in homage bowed, both content 
 Upon so fair a queen to see their colors blent. 
 
 May, 1877. ZETE. 
 
72 A THOUGHT. 
 
 IN ABSENCE. 
 
 Thy heart is a haven, love, 
 
 And my heart is a rover, 
 But thy love for me is a deep blue sea 
 
 On which my heart comes over. 
 
 And no storm sweeps that sea, 
 But there the sun shines ever. 
 
 On its breast so deep as the shadows sleep 
 At evening on the river. 
 
 My heart's good ship is light. 
 
 For love is its only freighting ; 
 And the dearest eyes 'neath yonder skies 
 Are waiting, waiting, waiting. 
 November, 1878. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 JOHN MALLET. 
 
 I KNOW not whether the creed 
 
 Of the Greeks of old be true — 
 That the soul lives on from age to age, 
 
 That the body only is new ; 
 
 But I know there's a spirit-face 
 That comes to me o'er and o'er — 
 
 A face that I seem to have known and loved 
 In a far-off land before. 
 
MA BLONDE. 73 
 
 I know not the clime nor the age 
 When our souls were linked as one, 
 
 Or when the link was broken by death, 
 And I left weeping alone. 
 
 It may have been mid the Alps, 
 
 In a hut o'er a precipice hung ; 
 Or perhaps beneath Egyptian palms 
 
 When the Pyramids were young. 
 
 But somewhere, long ago, 
 
 We loved — I care not when ; 
 And I trust in the spirit-land above 
 
 We shall meet and love again. 
 January, 1879. ^' 
 
 MA BLONDE. 
 
 WILLIAM E. CHRISTIAN. 
 
 Clear-cheeked, rose-lipped streamlet, dimple, 
 
 dimple, 
 Laugh and dance in sweetness simple, simple ; 
 Bending down to kiss thy face. 
 My features in thy eyes I trace. 
 
 Bright blonde, crowned with tresses golden, golden. 
 More fair than crown of princess olden, olden, 
 Alas ! the shimmer of thine eye 
 Gives back no image ! Hence the sigh. 
 
 April, 1879. 
 
74 THE BLUE RIDGE. 
 
 THE BLUE RIDGE. 
 
 Stretching afar throughout the Virgin's land 
 The Blue Ridge towers in silent majesty. 
 How lovingly it views the "sacred soil," 
 The Valley of Virginia — garden spot — 
 And nestling at its feet the fair Piedmont, 
 Teeming with fruitage ripe for harvesting. 
 Sleek cattle grazing on a thousand hills, 
 Between whose green slopes, gladdening all things, 
 
 flow 
 The Shenandoah's gently murmuring stream. 
 The Rappahannock and the " Bonnie James," 
 While near at hand its dark, green mountains 
 
 rise. 
 With each receding ridge of paler hue, 
 Until it fades into the misty sky ! 
 Grand old Blue Ridge ! So peerless, though 
 
 unsung ! 
 Swissland, snow-capped, may claim sublimity. 
 Soft Italy may boast her mellow tints, 
 And Greece her purple hills, yet none surpass 
 The beauty of thy pure ethereal blue ! 
 But better far than beauty, it is thine 
 To inspire thy sons (as all true mountain-born) 
 With high resolve and noble sentiment ; 
 Breathing in all, whate'er their sphere may be, 
 A glorious, God-inspired heritage — 
 " Live firmly in the Whole, the Good, the True ! " 
 January, 1880. 
 
ON A PICTURE OF M . 75 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF M . 
 
 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON. 
 
 " Her face more fair 
 Than sudden singing April in soft lands. 
 
 4c * « * * * 
 
 There is no touch of sun or fallen rain 
 That ever fell on a more gracious thing." 
 
 —Swinburne. 
 
 I. 
 
 In God's bright worid there are so many things 
 So wonderful we cannot pause to take 
 
 A glance at all. 'Round some of these there clings 
 A halo which maketh all our senses ache 
 
 With beauty. Yet no man may turn away 
 From this miraculous face 
 
 Without a wish to either weep or pray — 
 
 So sanctified, so purified it is with heavenly grace, 
 
 But radiant as the dawning of a golden summer 
 day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, flower-soft face, so still, so sad, so sweet, 
 Whose every curving line is beauty's own. 
 
 Surely the heart which doth not faster beat 
 Beneath thy smile must be a heart of stone. 
 
 In the dear light of those translucent eyes 
 Dimly the old-world dreams 
 
l6 LOVE AND DEATH. 
 
 Flood through my soul like morning melodies, 
 And down the purple sun-dawn Aurora's chariot 
 
 gleams 
 And Aphrodite glimmers 'neath serenely smiling 
 
 skies. 
 mm III. 
 
 She should have lived thousands of years ago, 
 
 In that dim age, half human, half divine. 
 When storm-winds never stirred life's rhythmic 
 flow, 
 Nor dregs fell in the Bacchanalian wine. 
 Think of her, painter, lying still and fair, 
 
 Far in the silent South — 
 Her face turned upward to the dazzling air. 
 
 With the honey bees a-murmur around her 
 maiden mouth, 
 And the golden Grecian sunlight on her hyacin- 
 thine hair. 
 June, 1880. J. L. G. 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 
 
 TO J. B. G , SEPTEMBER 13, 1880. 
 
 A. C. GORDON. 
 
 In the hushed twilight, amid shadows gray. 
 Alone I stand and dream in this old place 
 That knew us twain as boys, on which thy face 
 
 May shine no more forever. A new day 
 
 O'er grander hills than yon dim mountains seen 
 
FOAM PICTURES, 77 
 
 Through troublous tears of mine hath dawned for 
 thee. 
 
 The sky is bluer there ; more emerald green 
 The wolds and dells ; and there is no more sea. 
 
 And still old songs go ringing through my brain, 
 Old shadows haunt me, and old dreams pursue — 
 
 So that, perplexed, I question in my pain 
 The wisdom that hath promised "all things new," 
 Until my soul, by love uplifted, reads 
 The mystery right at last " that hangs behind the 
 creeds." 
 
 September, 1880. A. 
 
 FOAM PICTURES. 
 
 A BREATHLESS sky ; a sultry night ; 
 
 A crowded beach aglow with light ; 
 
 A group of bathers in the ocean. 
 
 Exulting in the waves' mad motion. 
 
 Fair bosoms breast the moonlit tide, 
 
 And strong arms dash the surf aside ; 
 
 And the foam-flakes laugh as they rustle in 
 
 O'er rounded form and dimpled chin. 
 
 Whilst over all, and in and out, 
 
 Soft music winds itself about. 
 
 As the silvery notes of the Liebstraum float 
 
 Far out at sea to the fisher's boat ; 
 
 And the fishermen say, as they hoist the sail, 
 
 "The waves are hissing, there'll be a gale." 
 
7^ FOAM PICTURES, 
 
 Adown the waves the silver moon 
 Descends to kiss the silver sand ; 
 
 While from the sea the sea-bird's cry- 
 Breaks on the music of the band. 
 
 A sudden tempest's sullen roar, 
 A vessel struggling near the shore, 
 Her cables parting with a shock, 
 Mad waves that tumble o'er a rock. 
 White faces, sobs, a prayer or so, 
 A crash, a cry of helpless woe. 
 As through the caverns of the sea 
 Frail mortals seek Eternity, 
 And over all the lightnings play. 
 And Nature sings Death's roundelay. 
 
 The wild waves moan along the shore 
 The wild winds sob and sigh ; 
 
 And high above the breakers* roar 
 Is heard the sea-bird's cry. 
 
 Along the east faint streaks of light, 
 Foam-crested breakers gleaming white. 
 Some dim forms moving on the shore. 
 And others still for evermore. 
 Some women making piteous moan 
 O'er faces carven out of stone. 
 While on the dead and living all 
 A cold mist settles like a pall. 
 
EDELWEISS. 79 
 
 A sound of sighing from the surf, 
 
 And from the beach a wailing cry ; 
 And over all the breakers* roar, 
 And over all a leaden sky. 
 January, i88i. R. G. 
 
 EDELWEISS. 
 
 Pillowed in cushions of ice and snow, 
 
 Peeping over the precipice bare, 
 The white clouds kiss thee as on they go, 
 And the world and its mortals are far below. 
 
 And only the Alps are there. 
 
 Thou lookest alone on the rising sun. 
 
 While the hamlets below are lapped in gloom ; 
 The first to see the day begun. 
 And the last, when its little course is run. 
 To gaze into its" tomb. 
 
 Dost thou never think of the garden-bed ? 
 
 Dost thou never wish that thou wert a rose ? 
 Or yearn for the gentian's blue instead 
 Of that passionless white, or long for the red 
 
 Which the tiger-lily shows ? 
 
 When thou liest asleep in the silent night, 
 While over the crags peers the moon's pale face ; 
 
 And down the snow trip the moonbeams light, 
 
 And strive to drag in mad delight 
 Each shade from its hiding-place — 
 
8o THE GOLD STRING. 
 
 Dost thou dream, in thy icy, cloud-swept nest. 
 Of a sky where warmer hues are blent ? 
 
 Or nestle in dreams on a rounded breast. 
 
 Content to die, and dying rest 
 
 Where many a flower hath died content? 
 
 Ah, no ! In thy home where no foot hath trod, 
 
 A fitting mate for the snow and ice, 
 A marble flower on a marble sod. 
 Chiselled, forsooth, by the hand of God, 
 
 Thou art frostier still than thy home, Edelweiss. 
 June, 1881. G. R. 
 
 THE GOLD STRING. 
 
 The minstrel's harp was daintily strung, 
 And empearled like a shell of the sea ; 
 
 Sweet ran the chords he swept as he sung, 
 In the pride of the minstrelsy. 
 
 And amid the strings of the harp, somewhere- 
 
 But where could never be told, 
 For all were gilded to see and fair — 
 
 There nestled one string of gold. 
 
 And whatever tones the minstrel brought 
 From the chords he waked from sleeping. 
 
 Into the music, all unsought, 
 
 A thrilling sound came creeping ; 
 
THE GOLD STRING. 8l 
 
 For high above the pulsing beat, 
 The surge of the song and the shiver, 
 
 With a sound more clear and a note more sweet 
 The golden string would quiver. 
 
 And souls peered out from the prison bars 
 As the worldlings stopped to listen, 
 
 And thought of something beyond the stars, 
 And dull eyes 'gan to glisten. 
 
 And those whose grief had choked them broke 
 At the sound of the harp and the sobbing ; 
 
 For in every heart an echo woke 
 From the gold string and its throbbing. 
 
 And mortals thought that one sweet note 
 Had slipped through the great pearl portal, 
 
 Down the dim depths of space afloat 
 To earth from the choir immortal. 
 
 But the fountain-drops plash with a liquid chime 
 
 On the brook which floats to the sea ; 
 And we are but drops in the stream of Time, 
 
 As it sweeps to Eternity. 
 
 •X- ^ -K- -x- ^ -x- * 
 
 So there came a dawn in the early spring. 
 
 When never a song remains unsung, 
 When birds are lightest on the wing. 
 
 And the gray world again feels young. 
 6 
 
82 AFTER THE DIPLOMA, 
 
 The meadows sparkled with morning dew, 
 Twittered the birds in their wildwood bower ; 
 
 They rustled their little throats and grew 
 Half mad with joy of the passing hour. 
 
 The nightingale piped his lustiest lay 
 (Now was the time for a song, or never). 
 
 The sweet tune rose and died away, 
 
 But the minstrel's harp was stilled forever. 
 
 The breeze, all wanton, touched the strings. 
 
 But they echoed back no token, 
 And the mourners sobbed as the sun went down, 
 
 For the golden string lay broken ! 
 December, 1881. G. P. R. 
 
 AFTER THE DIPLOMA. 
 
 CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. 
 
 There is no sentiment 'tween man and man^ 
 At least so says the world ; and when men part, 
 'Tis but a pressure of the hand ; the heart 
 Is silent in two passionless good-byes. 
 And so men drift asunder. Women can 
 Press lips to lips, look love from eyes to eyes ; 
 But men turn off to reach their separate ends. 
 And he who should by chance their faces scan 
 Would little guess that good-by parted friends. 
 
A BIT OF HUMAN NATURE. ^3^ 
 
 And you go out to meet the world. Oh, boy, 
 My friend, when shall the old days come again ? 
 And when they come shall we be boys, though 
 
 men ? 
 When shall we meet ? When shall our pathways 
 
 cross ? 
 No more, perhaps ; for man is but a toy, 
 A plaything for a wilful fate to toss 
 Upon the sea of life, and so our ways 
 May wander on and on, till pain or joy 
 Has covered with a mist our college days. 
 
 Good-by, oh, blue-eyed, brown-haired boy, my 
 
 friend ! 
 Old fellow, may the world wag well with you. 
 Our paths divide, and out beyond our view 
 The land far stretches where the sun goes down. 
 And on the east the sea. Shall our paths blend ? 
 But if your eyes so blue and mine so brown 
 Shall meet on earth no more, then when the noise 
 Of life is hushed, life's battle at an end, 
 God grant that we may meet above as boys. 
 June 23, 1883. V. A. Univ. 
 
 A BIT OF HUMAN NATURE. 
 
 CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. 
 
 'TiS only a pair of woman's eyes. 
 So long-lashed, soft, and brown. 
 
 Half hiding the light that in them lies, 
 As dreamily looking down. 
 
84 A BIT OF HUMAN JVA TURK, 
 
 'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip, 
 Half full, half clear defined, 
 
 And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip, 
 And a figure half reclined. 
 
 'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair. 
 With sunlight sifted through. 
 
 And a truant curl just here and there, 
 And a knot of ribbon blue. 
 
 'Tis only the wave of a feather fan, 
 That ruffles the creamy lace, 
 
 Loose gathered about the bosom fair. 
 By Rhine-stones held in place. 
 
 'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe. 
 With the glimpse of a color above — ' 
 
 A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue, 
 The shade that lovers love. 
 
 *Tis only a woman — a woman, that's all. 
 And, as only a woman can. 
 
 Bringing a heart to her beck and call 
 By waving her feather fan. 
 
 'Tis only a woman, and I — 'twere best 
 
 To forget that waving fan. 
 She only a woman — you know the rest ? 
 
 But I am only a man. 
 April, 1884. ^- ^- Nameloc. 
 
IN THE GERMAN. 85 
 
 IN THE GERMAN. 
 
 CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. 
 
 She stood upon the polished floor, 
 Amid the ball-room's blazing light, 
 
 And slowly scanned the circle o'er, 
 That formed the dance that night. 
 
 (The waltz they played was Woman's Love) 
 She stood and stroked her long white glove. 
 
 The creamy silk her form caressed, 
 
 A bunch of plumes hung o'er her heart ; 
 
 Her bosom by soft lace was pressed. 
 Her rich, red lips apart. 
 
 (The German was the dance that night.) 
 One high-heeled shoe was just in sight. 
 
 She held a favor in her hand, 
 
 A dainty, perfumed, painted thing, 
 
 A tiny heart — yet he would stand. 
 Who won that prize, a king. 
 
 (The waltz they played was Woma7is Love.) 
 How fast my throbbing heart did move ! 
 
S6 IN THE GERMAN. 
 
 Men watched her there with eager eyes, 
 The light upon her curls did shine ; 
 
 Then with a look of sweet surprise, 
 Her great gray eyes met mine. 
 
 (The German was the dance that night.) 
 She smiled — her smile was wondrous bright. 
 
 She waved her fan coquettishly, 
 
 And half inclined her well-poised head. 
 
 As in a tone, part coy, part shy, 
 " Here, take my heart," she said. 
 
 (The waltz they played was Woman's Love.) 
 Her hand in mine lay like a dove. 
 
 I felt love in my pulses start. 
 
 She was my own for that brief space ; 
 
 Her heart was beating 'gainst my heart, 
 Her breath played o'er my face. 
 
 (The German was the dance that night.) 
 The dawn broke slowly into light. 
 
 Has she who gave forgotten quite ? 
 
 I wear that heart my own above. 
 (The German was the dance that night ; 
 
 The waltz they played was Woman's Love.) 
 
 November, 1884. W. C. NaMELOC. 
 
THE HARP-GIRL. 87 
 
 THE HARP-GIRL. 
 
 GEORGE W. SMITH. 
 (From the German of Heine.) 
 
 A LITTLE wand'ring harp-girl sang 
 With simple art and childish feeling ; 
 
 Tho' notes were false, they thro* me rang, 
 As if my soul revealing. 
 
 She sang of love, and love's dear sorrow 
 
 Ascended up and found again, 
 Far overhead, that sweet to-morrow 
 
 Where sorrows must refrain. 
 
 And much she sang of the earthly goal, 
 Of earthly joys which soon are flown. 
 
 Of golden shores where flits the soul 
 Clothed in its snowy gown. 
 
 She sang the old dismissal song, 
 
 So oft by mourning friendship given, 
 
 To waft earth-weary souls along 
 Across death's sea to heaven. 
 
 And so the wand'ring harp-girl sang 
 With simple art and childish feeling; 
 
 Tho' notes were false, they thro' me rang. 
 As if my soul revealing. 
 December, 1884. MEISTERSINGER. 
 
88 y£ POET TO HIS LAD YE LOVE. 
 PLANTATION SONG. 
 
 EDGAR B. RAYMOND. 
 
 De big sunflower may rise above 
 
 De modes' 'tater-vine, 
 An* flaunt aroun' in Sunday close 
 
 An* put on a*rs so fine. 
 
 But when de winter am a-howlin' roun*. 
 
 An* de snow lays *gin de do', 
 De big sunflower, oh, whar is he ? 
 
 De 'tater got de flo*. 
 February, 1885. 
 
 Y^ POET TO HIS LADYE LOVE. 
 
 CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. 
 
 THREE RONDEAUX. 
 I. 
 
 SWEETE Mistresse Maye : 
 
 Y' She Will Bee Hys Valentyne. 
 
 Sweete Mistresse Maye, debonaire, 
 I vrge thee hearken to mye Prayer 
 Vpon y^ Page traced in y^ Lyne, 
 Mye Muse wovld faine y« Task declyne, 
 Bewildered bye thye Beautie rare. 
 
■ V^ POET TO HIS LAD YE LOVE. 89 
 
 I praie thee make mee not despaire, 
 Ye whilste I doe mye Love declare 
 Ande begge thee bee mye Valentyne, 
 Sweete Mistresse Maye. 
 
 Thou art contrarie, some wovM sweare, 
 (Y« savcie Jades such Envie beare), 
 
 Butte faine wov'd I mye Hearte resigne, 
 Ande praye thine owne in place of mine : 
 Provde thenne I'd bee beyonde compare, 
 Sweete Mistresse Maye ! 
 
 II. 
 
 A RONDEAU, IN Ye PRAISE OF HYS MISTRESS' 
 
 EYES. 
 
 O Eyes divine, whose Beautie glows 
 (I weene y^ Nighte such Starres ne'er showes) 
 Atweene y^® Lashes cvrled and longe, 
 Yovr Ivcid Blve canne dreame noe Wronge, 
 Whenne soft att Night y« thinne Lyddes close. 
 
 Like Pansies blooming in Repose, 
 Above y® Cheek's translucent Rose, 
 Fytte theme are Ye for Poet's Song, 
 O Eyes Divine ! 
 
 To rydde my Hearte of all its Woes 
 Y® Depth of Love abvndante flovves, 
 
90 yB POET TO HIS LAD YE LOVE. 
 
 Y* in yovr Blve bvrnes bright and stronge ; 
 Ye to mye Ladye-Love belonge, 
 Ande gleame each side her daintie Nose, 
 O Eyes divine ! 
 
 III. 
 
 GOODE-NIGHTE, SWEETEHEARTE. 
 
 GoODE-NlGHTE, Sweetehearte ! Good-Nighte, my 
 
 Sweete ! 
 Y« Watchman crying in y« Streete, 
 
 Has told y^ Houre whenne I must goe — 
 "Twelve of y^ Clocke ! Alleys Welle!" — ande 
 soe 
 I leave thee with relvctant Feete. 
 
 As cryes y« Watchman on his Beate, 
 Beneathe thy Windowe I repeate — 
 
 "Twelve of y^ Clocke ! Alle's Welle," I trowe ; 
 Goode-Nighte, Sweetehearte ! 
 
 Bvtte rosie Morn y« Worlde shalle greete, 
 And bydde y^ cruell Nighte retreate — 
 
 Mye Lyppes thy Lyddes once more shall knowe, 
 Thine Eyes into mine Eyes shalle glowe — 
 Good-Nighte, deare Love, till thenne we meet, 
 Goode-Nighte, Sweetehearte ! 
 
 February, 1885. W. C. NaMELOC. 
 
LA CAMPAGNE D' AMOUR, 9 1 
 
 LA CAMPAGNE D'AMOUR. 
 
 ROBERT COLEMAN TAYLOR. 
 
 Be on thy guard, dear heart, 
 Be on thy guard. 
 See that thou be not taken unawares ; 
 Yield not too blindly to her charms ; 
 Fast close thy gates ; let him who rashly dares 
 Deceive himself with false alarms. 
 Be on thy guard, dear heart, 
 Be on thy guard. 
 
 Make brave defence, dear heart, 
 Make brave defence. 
 But if the overpowering enemy 
 
 Environ thee with serried host, 
 And 'mid charms militant no coquetry 
 Storm ruthlessly thy guarded post. 
 Yield gracefully, dear heart. 
 Yield gracefully. 
 
 Then rouse thyself, dear heart. 
 Then rouse thyself. 
 Vae victrici ! Compel the conqueress, 
 
 Who erstwhile conquered thee, in turn. 
 Employ thy might, thine art, thy brave address ; 
 No peace, or her heart-towers burn. 
 So rouse thyself, dear heart. 
 So rouse thyself. 
 
92 CORKING. 
 
 Then shall she yield, dear heart, 
 Then shall she yield. 
 Make generous peace ; join sometime warring 
 hosts ; 
 In sweet confederacy combine ; 
 Until your happy union proudly boasts 
 That thou art hers, that she is thine. 
 Thy task is done, dear heart, 
 Thy task is done. 
 March, 1885. 4 M. 
 
 CORKING. 
 
 J. S. W. PETERS. 
 
 Of all the ills that life entails, 
 The worst, there's no use talking, 
 
 Is to sit like an ass 
 
 In the Moral class, 
 And be corking, gently corking. 
 
 The Devil I stopped in the road one day^ 
 While around the world he was stalking, 
 
 And I said, " Do you know 
 
 In the regions below 
 A torture as awful as corking ? " 
 
 He dropped a professor he had in his arms, 
 And, as he was tired of walking, 
 
 Hung the curl of his tail 
 
 On the end of a rail, 
 And said, " No, we have nothing like corking." 
 
FRIENDS. 93 
 
 And now as I toil with a blackboard full 
 Of questions long and balking, 
 
 I sigh for the day 
 
 When I'll hasten away 
 To the place they have nothing like corking ! 
 
 March, 1885. 
 
 FRIENDS. 
 
 CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. 
 
 Two friends there were who down the sunny years 
 Went hand in hand along the pleasant ways 
 Of college life — there are no more such days 
 
 As college days ; ambition, hope, no fears. 
 
 And of those friends a passion deep as tears 
 Ruled over one ; but reticent of praise, 
 And slow to show his heart, careless always. 
 
 The other seemed to move in alien spheres. 
 
 These friends as men the great world shook apart ; 
 
 One bade farewell with smiles, and one with 
 tears ; 
 
 And time went sweeping on its course to fill. 
 To him who gave the fervor of his heart 
 
 That friendship lies forgotten in the years ; 
 
 But he who careless seemed remembers still. 
 
 April, 1885. V. A. Univ. 
 
94 BONN YB EL, 
 
 TO 
 
 F. R. LASSITER. 
 
 Fairer than tongue can tell 
 
 Or pictured art, 
 Thine is the witching spell 
 
 Love doth impart. 
 Clasping my golden chains, 
 Singing in olden strains, 
 
 All of my soul is thine, 
 
 Maid of my heart ! 
 
 Sweet ! thou canst never know 
 
 Love such as mine ; 
 Still let thy heart bestow 
 
 Such as is thine. 
 Give what I've striven for. 
 Care shall be driven far; 
 
 Drinking long draughts of love, 
 
 Nectar divine. 
 May, 1885. Benedict. 
 
 BONNYBEL. 
 
 CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN. 
 
 Beneath her bonnet's dainty brim 
 Are two bright eyes. 
 Like summer skies, 
 
BONN YB EL. 95 
 
 That laugh below a fluffy rim 
 
 Of tangled hair, 
 
 Which I declare 
 Is cute, though anything but trim. 
 
 Between her eyes so blue and fair 
 
 A saucy nose, 
 
 With upward pose, 
 Is impudently tossed in air, 
 
 Quite retrousse. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day. 
 You are a saucy miss, I swear ! 
 
 Beneath her nose so retrousse 
 
 Two lips a-smile 
 
 With witching wile. 
 Like roses blossoming in May ; 
 
 Those lips apart, 
 
 With cunning art. 
 Will well-nigh steal your heart away. 
 
 Beneath that fluffy fall of lace, 
 
 Upon her breast 
 
 So softly pressed, 
 A saucy heart there beats apace. 
 
 Ah, sweet, I pray 
 
 That soon I may 
 Within that dear heart find a place. 
 May, 1885. J. L. K, 
 
g6 ADIEU. 
 
 THE LILY AND THE BROOK. 
 
 While passing along by the rippling brook, 
 Where the fairies dwell in their sunny nook, 
 I saw a lily bending low, 
 Kissing the rippling stream below; 
 But the stream rushed on with its busy pace, 
 Ne'er giving a thought to the lily's face. 
 December, 1885. StET. 
 
 ADIEU. 
 
 F. R. LASSITER. 
 
 List to my simple lay. 
 Queen of my heart ! 
 
 Words that I fain would say, 
 Thickly upstart. 
 
 Hot blood is beating fast. 
 
 Moments are fleeting past, 
 Soon we must part. 
 
 Long has wild love for thee 
 Burned in my breast. 
 
 Living out painfully 
 Years of unrest. 
 
 Never despairingly. 
 
 Madly and daringly. 
 
 Always within my soul 
 Fond hope is pressed. 
 
A TOAST. 97 
 
 Then thy heart turned to me, 
 
 Nestled in mine, 
 Clasping me lovingly, 
 
 Rapture divine ! 
 Ills ceased oppressing me. 
 Love, sweetly blessing me, 
 Thrilled all my beating veins. 
 
 Joyous as wine. 
 
 Now must I leave thy side ; 
 
 Fates still pursue ; 
 Oh, let thy love abide 
 
 Fervent and true ! 
 Clasping thee, pressing this 
 Last, long, caressing kiss, 
 Soul of my soul beloved, 
 
 Darling, adieu ! 
 December, 1885. ^' ^' ^' 
 
 A TOAST. 
 
 " Give us," they cried, " a toast." 
 Each could of some one boast. 
 Of some one who had loved him most. 
 "Give us her name," they cried ; 
 " Is she living, or has she died ? 
 No matter. Give us a toast," they cried. 
 Why should I say I had ever loved ? 
 'Twas unknown to all, save Him who's above. 
 7 
 
9^ A TOAST. 
 
 Why should I give to them her full name ? 
 
 I could drink to , 'twould be just the same. 
 
 My love was unknown to all the feast ; 
 
 Sure, I could think of her this night at least. 
 
 So I rose and held my glass on high, 
 
 And tho' years had flown, was that a sigh } 
 
 " Is she young, and is she fair ? 
 
 Tell us the color of your loved one's hair." 
 
 "She's as bright," I cried, "as this glass of 
 
 wine ! " 
 Why should I say she'd never be mine ? 
 " Her teeth are pearls from the deep blue sea ! " 
 Why should I say she had never loved me ? 
 " The color of her hair is a golden hue, 
 Her eyes are of an indescribable blue." 
 Why should I say my heart was sore ? 
 I had said enough, there was need of no more. 
 They rose with a laugh, and, with eyes on me. 
 Each man raised his glass, and with a shout full 
 
 of glee — 
 " Here's to your love, and to you a success." 
 Each man thought I could wish no less. 
 Why should I tell them 'twas all in vain, 
 That she laughed at me when she saw my pain ? 
 Why should I say my heart was sore ? 
 I had said enough, there was need of no more. 
 December, 1885. CaNTATRICE. 
 
A REVERIE. 99 
 
 YE YNNKE SPOTTE. 
 
 ROBERT COLEMAN TAYLOR. 
 
 YE Ynnk« opinyng^ Hee y^ Smart« 
 Hath« tak^n scvrvie Paynes and gott« 
 Ovt of Hys Waie to« l^av^ a Blott^ 
 
 Vponn^ my« Book« hys Ovt-Sid« Part^ 
 
 Bvtt® Look« ! Knav« Cvpyd hys Deep« Art® 
 Y^ to^ bee Seen. Yis tricksie Spott« 
 Y^ rath^re to« bee Pryz^d Y" nott^ ; 
 
 Forr y" y^ sharp«<^ lyk« a Hearts I 
 January, 1886. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 STERLING GALT. 
 
 At eventide, when all is calm. 
 And shadows flit across the lea, 
 
 Fond memory with its soothing balm 
 Wafts recollection dear to me. 
 
 I think of days now past and gone. 
 Of pleasures we have often shared, 
 
 Of sorrows which alike were borne 
 By each for whom the other cared. 
 
 How sweet the scenes of by-gone years ! 
 
 How dear we loved each other then ! 
 But now how changed by sorrow's tears 
 
 That joy which ne'er can be again ! 
 
lOO A MIRAGE. 
 
 Like leaves that on a streamlet swift 
 Glide side by side, our love has been ; 
 
 But like them parted, now we drift 
 Asunder, ne'er to meet again. 
 
 *Tis pleasant to remember all 
 
 The sweetness of the happy past ; 
 
 So let Oblivion's curtain fall 
 
 On sorrow, but let pleasure last. 
 
 January, 1886. D. D£ L. 
 
 A MIRAGE. 
 
 EDGAR B. HAYMOND. 
 
 The long, slim shadows from the rising moon 
 Fell on my love and me, and stretched far off 
 Athwart the velvet grass. The dreary day 
 Was now to close with bliss the gods themselves. 
 With all their wealth of rapturous bliss, ne'er felt. 
 But when my heart gave one tumultuous bound 
 Of great dehght that we were thus alone, 
 Lo ! even then, she crushed the rising hope. 
 Took from my lips the cup which I would drink, 
 And left me thirsting, as old Dives' self 
 Ne'er thirsted in hell's torments of the lost. 
 For then, with heartless cruelty, she went, 
 On slight pretext, to leave me there forlorn, 
 In depths of desperate misery plunged ; and went 
 To leave me, not upon the lawn, which erst 
 Had seemed a beauteous paradise, but stretched 
 
A MIRAGE. lOl 
 
 Upon an arid waste of desert sand, 
 Without a hope to live ; my only wish 
 To win forgetfulness of self, of pain, 
 Of her, and find relief and peace in death. 
 
 As when some traveller on Sahara's sands 
 
 Has lost himself, and hope abandoned long, 
 
 And prays for death to stop the pangs of life. 
 
 But, all despondent, looking hopeless up. 
 
 Sees on before a glorious stretch of green. 
 
 With lofty trees and babbling-brooks, to save 
 
 And strengthen him for all his onward march — 
 
 E'en so came my mirage in my despair. 
 
 For then I dreamed her face was close to mine, 
 
 I felt her sweet, warm breath play on my cheek. 
 
 As Adam once felt his Creator's come 
 
 To give him life. And now, with life, came more — 
 
 Came wish to live, and firm resolve to lead 
 
 A higher, holier, purer life, thenceforth, 
 
 For her dear sake and for my love to her. 
 
 No hot blood then coursed maddening through 
 
 my veins, 
 But cool, delicious streams, with mighty power 
 To raise me high above my former self, 
 To love without an earth-taint marring it. 
 I did not even wish, with touch profane, 
 To give caresses to her dimpled cheek. 
 Or steal one lingering kiss from her rich lips. 
 Or let my hand stray through her massy hair. 
 
I02 TO . 
 
 Or ask for any boon which lovers deem 
 Their right and hold so dear. Enough for me 
 To know that she was near, and that my soul 
 Was wedded to her soul in love divine. 
 And as my raptured thought looked on adown 
 The vista of the years to come, it seemed 
 That they were filled with more than heavenly joy, 
 With this grand creature ever by my side. 
 * -x- -x- -x- 4t -x- -x- 
 
 So long this glory lasted that the trees 
 
 Drew to their trunks the lengthy shadows frail, 
 
 And massed them there ; and then towards the 
 
 east 
 Saw them stretch out to greet the coming morn. 
 And then, alas ! my throbbing heart stood still. 
 The dream was past, and with it life was gone. 
 
 October, 1886. 
 
 TO 
 
 My heart is gone as Cupid leads, 
 
 And me for thee it does forswear. 
 Reveal to me, if I must needs 
 
 To seek it from my lady fair ; 
 
 For if thou fain wouldst keep it there, 
 Then send me thine for mine, which pleads 
 
 That one soul should not have a pair. 
 And heartless be to heart that bleeds. 
 January, 1887. 
 
THE MODERN OLYMPUS. 1 03 
 
 THE MODERN OLYMPUS. 
 
 HERBERT BARRY. 
 
 His noontide heat the orb of day had past, 
 
 And now the growing shadows lengthen fast, 
 
 When, in obedience to great Jove's command, 
 
 The gods assembled in an august band ; 
 
 And, gathering in the stately pillared hall, 
 
 They wait the object of the monarch's call. 
 
 Majestic Jove with gloomy brow surveyed 
 
 That lordly throng who his behest obeyed. 
 
 And them addressed : " Immortals, well ye know 
 
 That, of the human race on earth below, 
 
 Our followers are all disciples true 
 
 Who search for knowledge and, our will to do. 
 
 Before our altars burn the midnight oil. 
 
 Hoping that thus success may crown their toil. 
 
 Well have they served, but now grow discontent, 
 
 And on some recreation all are bent. 
 
 They crave to dance, and so to me they pray 
 
 Upon this point to let them have their way ; 
 
 But after careful thought and meditation. 
 
 This question I resolved as an equation, 
 
 In which the unknown quantity is sin. 
 
 Increasing fast when once it doth begin. 
 
 And soon not even calculus can show 
 
 To what excess of vice it will not go. 
 
 If mathematics cannot count the cost, 
 
 They lose not, though the pleasure may be lost. 
 
I04 THE MODERN OLYMPUS, 
 
 On this account I have denied their prayer; 
 Yet, lest I might be ever thought unfair, 
 I now submit their plea before you all, 
 The dread tribunal of th' Olympic Hall." 
 The monarch ceased, and for a little space 
 A solemn silence rested on the place. 
 Then rose bright Phoebus with the fiery hair, 
 With whom for form and feature none compare. 
 And spake in thrilling and impassioned tone. 
 With eloquence to move a heart of stone : 
 *'0 Gods, I would not dance if I knew how, 
 Because it's wicked, as we all allow ; 
 And if a person dances, I know well 
 He's far advanced upon the road to Tartarus." * 
 Then Ceres, who o'er agriculture reigns. 
 And guides in botany the rustic swains. 
 Stood forth and spake : " O Gods, I little care 
 'Whether they dance or not ; but this I swear : 
 That my disciples have no time indeed 
 For such amusements, since it is agreed 
 Their toils surpass e'en those of Hercules." 
 She stops, and on each face approval sees ; 
 And pleased with the unusual favor shown, 
 With beaming face resumes her stately throne. 
 Next, Mercury, who rides upon the wind, 
 Of whose original and brilliant mind 
 Boethius, Chaucer, Shakespeare, all do tell. 
 Then rose and spake : ** O Jove, I know full well 
 
 * Somehow this does not exactly rhyme, but it was the best 
 word the ancients had. 
 
THE MODERN OLYMPUS. 105 
 
 That thou hast rightly judged, and so I say, 
 
 Let not weak mortals dance, e'en though they 
 
 may 
 Be not thus harmed ; which I do doubt, and think 
 That this alone would lead them on to drink 
 Celestial nectar, which would drive them mad." 
 So spake the god with dismal face and sad. 
 Next, Pallas, who reigns over abstruse thought 
 And all philosophy, then rose and brought 
 Her gems of logic to assist their choice. 
 And, after frequent stops to clear her voice. 
 Thus spake : " O Gods, I have reflected long 
 Upon this point, and find the dance is wrong. 
 For, view this proposition in extension. 
 And by the Third Law, which I need not mention. 
 We know there cannot be a tertiujn quid. 
 Which also Occam's law must quite forbid. 
 So then there is no mood that this will fit. 
 Not even ' Fokmafokf * can furnish it. 
 And now you see from this account succinct 
 The non-ego and ego are distinct. 
 Hence we infer, without the slightest chance 
 Of error, that these mortals must not dance." 
 Quite stunned by this, the gods a moment pause 
 Ere showing their approval in applause. 
 Up rose then Venus, more than mortal fair, 
 And shaking back her tangled locks, which ne'er 
 Had suffered from the touch of comb or brush. 
 She smiled and raised her hand, at which a hush 
 Fell o'er the throng, whom then she thus addressed : 
 
lo6 THE MODERN OLYMPUS, 
 
 "Stop, gentlemen, pray do not romp and rois- 
 ter, 
 And make, I beg, no more noise than anoyster : 
 For to this question of the dance I'd danswer, 
 If we don't stop them we must let each dancer 
 Dangor not dance." So spake the Queen of 
 
 Beauty. 
 Thereon, obedient to the call of duty. 
 The amorous Bacchus from his seat thus spake : 
 " This high court of uncommon pleas must take 
 The cognizance of a peculiar cause 
 To judge by fancy and Olympic laws. 
 Wherein consider : These our slaves have filed 
 A declaration setting forth their wild 
 Desire for the dance ; but pray observe 
 The court has quashed, as it did well deserve, 
 This action, showing that the laws of Nature 
 Work well in absence of a legislature. 
 His judgment I support upon appeal. 
 Witness thereto this day my hand and seal." 
 Next rose the graceful god from down below, 
 And with the bold, free glance we all well know, 
 Surveyed the throng ; and from triassic strata, 
 Essayed to bring his thoughts upon this matter, 
 Leaving a little time his rocks and ores 
 And paleontologic dammolebores ; 
 Then eloquently spake : " Oh, ye immortals. 
 Secure I dwell within my palace portals. 
 And ever shun vain woman's tender gaze. 
 Lest I unwittingly should let them raise 
 
AT THE OPERA. X07 
 
 Fond hopes, alas ! yet cherished but to die. 
 Thus to myself I live, nor do I sigh 
 To tread the dance's maze, nor do I see 
 Why all do not take pattern after me." 
 
 Upon these words a murmur of assent 
 From lip to lip around the circle went, 
 And swelling upward into loud applause, 
 Resounded as a death-knell to the cause ; 
 And then, as with one voice, the gods pronounced 
 The sentence that the dance must be renounced. 
 Now from the lofty-columned judgment halls. 
 Exeunt omnes, and the curtain falls. 
 
 February, 1887, 
 
 AT THE OPERA. 
 
 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON. 
 
 " Swung by the might of music up to the Spirit land." 
 
 — Schiller. 
 
 Beneath the gas-lamps* glow, 
 Where light tides of laughter flow, 
 And the music of the orchestra breathes tenderly 
 and low, 
 I watch fair eyes that gleam. 
 And faces here that seem 
 To blossom, fade and blossom, like dream faces 
 through a dream. 
 
Io8 AT THE OPERA. 
 
 And the flash of waving fans, 
 Held in white and jewelled hands, 
 Bring odors as of light winds blown from hyacinth- 
 haunted lands ; 
 Till the heated air is stirred 
 With a flute-note like a bird, 
 And as one voice rises upward no other sound is 
 heard. 
 
 For the bright lights seem to sway, 
 And the air turns pale and gray. 
 And the orchestra seems silent and the faces fade 
 away ; 
 Borne on music's waves I go, 
 With that voice's ebb and flow. 
 To far lands 'neath a Southern sun where radiant 
 roses blow. 
 
 And my heart beats faster, filled 
 With my youth's lost hope, and thrilled 
 With the ecstasy I knew when first love's golden 
 trumpets shrilled : 
 As again and yet again 
 That sorrow-shattering strain 
 Floods over me its liquid waves of rapture and of 
 pain. 
 
 Ah, as the clear voice slips 
 Through Love's Apocalypse, 
 A white hand seems to hold the cup of Lethe to 
 my lips ; 
 
AT THE OPERA. 109 
 
 Through fields of flower-bright sod, 
 By paths God's angels trod, 
 I follow where one golden voice goes ringing up 
 to God. 
 
 Old bitter thoughts decrease — 
 Old bitter memories cease — 
 The world is wrapped in sunshine and the winds 
 are whispering peace ; 
 No more life seems forlorn, 
 Every rose has lost its thorn. 
 As on the rippling tides of song my tranced heart 
 is borne. 
 
 And now the song is done — 
 And again the bright lights run 
 Across the flash of jewelled hands like rain-drops 
 in the sun ; 
 And I hear again the beat 
 Of the viols low and sweet. 
 And smell again the hyacinth blooms athwart the 
 summer heat. 
 
 But though memory and regret 
 
 May make my lashes wet. 
 The music I have heard to-night I never shall forget; 
 
 For through song's golden door 
 
 And along its heavenward floor 
 My soul went nearer unto God than it ever was 
 before. 
 
 March, 1887. J. L. G. 
 
no SATS TOWSER AND MY TROUSER. 
 SAL'S TOWSER AND MY TROUSER. 
 
 A RUSTIC IDYL BY A RUSTIC IDLER. 
 
 THOMAS L. DABNEY. 
 
 But yestere'en I loved thee whole, 
 Oh, fashionable and baggy trouser ! 
 
 And now I loathe and hate the hole 
 In thee, I do, I trow, sir. 
 
 I sallied out to see my Sal, 
 
 Across yon round hill's brow, sir ; 
 
 I didn't know she, charming gal. 
 Had a dog — a trouser-browser. 
 
 I'd sauntered in quite trim and spruce, 
 When on a sudden, oh, my trouser, 
 
 I felt thee seized where thou'rt most loose— 
 I tarried there with Towser. 
 
 I on the fence, he down below. 
 And thou the copula, my trouser, 
 
 I thought he never would let go — 
 This gentle Towser. 
 
 They say that fashion cuts thee loose, 
 But not so fashioned is Sal's Towser ; 
 
 Thou gavest away at last, no use 
 To tarry, tear^d trouser. 
 
WHEN SHADOWS FALL. i^ 
 
 Miss Sarah she is wondrous sweet, 
 
 And I'd have once loved to espouse her, 
 
 But my calling trouser has no seat — 
 I left it there with Towser. 
 
 So all unseated is my suit ; 
 
 I must eschew Miss Sarah now, sir ; 
 He's chewed my trouser ; 'twouldn't suit 
 
 Me to meet Towser. 
 December, 1887. RUSTICUS. 
 
 WHEN SHADOWS FALL. 
 
 BERNARD WOLF. 
 
 Now the heart is young, and love is sweet. 
 And the spring-time of life and its summer meet. 
 With never a sigh for the winter to be ; 
 The sun shines bright, and the way is free, 
 With joy replete. 
 
 But the darkness comes when no man can see ; 
 Joy ceases to visit and fears to flee. 
 And the faded loves cling mournfully, 
 When shadows fall. 
 
112 REFLECTION. 
 
 May our days be happy, full, complete. 
 And the paths be smooth for piteous feet 
 To walk on. May life's billowy sea 
 Sink down to ripples restfully, 
 When shadows fall. 
 
 April, 1888. W. 
 
 REFLECTION. 
 
 AN EXAMPLE OF ENGLISH VERSE. 
 
 EDMUND WATSON TAYLOR. 
 
 Within the deepening mirror of thine eyes 
 I see a sweet reflection of my face ; 
 But well I know that beauteous mirror lies, 
 For it doth lend to me a sweeter grace 
 Than that which I possess. A flatt'ring trace 
 Of softened features there my love espies 
 Within the deepening mirror of thine eyes. 
 
 Within the deepening mirror of thine eyes 
 
 I see a sweet reflection of my face ; 
 
 Oh ! let no glist'ning tear-drop there arise, 
 
 Close not thine eager eyelids for a space. 
 
 However brief it be, lest it efface, 
 
 Ere imaged on thy soul, the lie that lies 
 
 Within the deepening mirror of thine eyes. 
 
 June, 1888. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 1 1 3 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON. 
 L 
 
 Remembering her 'neath earlier skies, 
 
 With April winds astir, 
 Existence gains a fairer guise 
 
 Remembering her. 
 
 In golden noons of days that were 
 
 I hear her voice's melodies — 
 Blending with flute and dulcimer. 
 
 Closed are the long-lashed violet eyes, 
 
 Asleep this many a year — 
 Known only of the tears that rise, 
 
 Remembering her. 
 
 IL 
 
 The way was sweet by which she trod 
 Where glad and sad things meet ; 
 
 Though sorrow was her staff and rod. 
 The way was sweet. 
 
 Her flower of faith bloomed so complete, 
 
 She scarcely felt upon time's sod 
 The thorns that pierced her feet. 
 
114 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 Through all her young life's period, 
 In light or dark, in field or street, 
 
 With fragrance of her faith in God 
 The way was sweet. 
 
 III. 
 
 I may not say what skies have bent 
 
 Above her newer day : 
 If peace is on the wav she went 
 
 I may not say. 
 
 Nor lips that sob, nor lips that pray, 
 When sobs and prayers are spent, 
 Have told us of that way. 
 
 But blent with her was a content, 
 
 Gone since she went away : 
 What sweeter, sacred things were blent- 
 
 I may not say. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Remembering her in that dead time. 
 
 The wings of sorrow stir 
 My heart to weave this simple rhyme — 
 
 Remembering her. 
 
 The pureness of the things that were 
 
 Used vine-like round her life to climb, 
 My verse cannot aver. 
 
AND NOW SHE'S MARRIED. 115 
 
 But all the bells of memory chime, 
 
 And in their strain I hear 
 The music of life's golden prime — 
 
 Remembering her. 
 December, 1888. J* L. G. 
 
 AND NOW SHE'S MARRIED. 
 
 TO FRENCH INCONSTANCY. 
 
 J. McD. PATTERSON. 
 
 Oh, cigarette, the amulet 
 
 That charms afar unrest and sorrow ; 
 The magic wand that far beyond 
 
 To-day can conjure up to-morrow ; 
 Like love's desire, thy crown of fire. 
 
 So softly with the twilight blending ; 
 And, ah, meseems a poet's dreams 
 
 Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending. 
 
 My cigarette ! can I forget 
 
 How Louise and I in Paris weather 
 Sat in the shade les rideaux made 
 
 And rolled the fragrant weed together ? 
 I at her side, beatified. 
 
 To hold and guide her fingers willing ; 
 She rolling slow the paper snow, 
 
 Putting my heart in with the filling. 
 
Ii6 DECLARATION IN ASSUMPSIT. 
 
 Oh, cigarette, I see her yet, 
 
 The white smoke from her red lips curling- 
 Her dreamy eyes, her soft replies, 
 
 Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling ! 
 Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul 
 
 Ebbs out in many a snowy billow, 
 I, too, would burn, could I but earn 
 
 Upon her lips so soft a pillow ! 
 
 But, cigarette, the gay coquette 
 
 Has long forgot the flame she lighted ; 
 And you and I, unthinking, by 
 
 Alike are thrown, alike are slighted. 
 The darkness gathers fast without — 
 
 A raindrop on my window plashes ; 
 My cigarette and heart are out. 
 
 And naught is left me but the ashes. 
 December, 1888. 
 
 DECLARATION IN ASSUMPSIT. 
 
 JOHN DOE VS. SUSAN ROE. 
 
 EDWARD C. TUCKER. 
 
 John Doe complains of Susan Roe, 
 That she, with scheming art, 
 
 Has stolen from the said John Doe 
 His valuable heart. 
 
DECLARA TION IN A S SUMP SIT. 1 1 7 
 
 For this, to wit, that heretofore, 
 
 To wit, November nine, 
 She called the said John Doe an oak 
 
 And styled herself the vine. 
 
 And later on the aforesaid day, 
 
 With malice all prepense, 
 The said defendant ate ice-cream 
 
 At plaintiffs great expense. 
 
 And then and there, to said John Doe, 
 
 Said Susan Roe implied 
 That she would go in coverture 
 
 To be said plaintiffs bride. 
 
 And this to do she has refused. 
 
 And thus, with cruel art, 
 Has stolen from the said John Doe 
 
 His valuable heart. 
 
 And so he prays this county court 
 
 To do him justice meet ; 
 Likewise for damages he prays. 
 
 Therefore he brings his suite. 
 December, 1888. 
 
Il8 '' GOD IS ETERNAL LONELINESS.'' 
 
 "GOD IS ETERNAL LONELINESS." 
 
 R. T. W. DUKE, JR. 
 (See Mrs. Rives-Chanler's sonnet in November " Lippincott's.'"') 
 
 "God is eternal loneliness." — Ah, no! 
 For souls of children ever at His feet, 
 Cling softly, and around Him fleet 
 White-winged messengers, who come and go, 
 Bearing petitions that our want or woe 
 Breathe for His ear alone : and theft the sweet, 
 Bright songs of angels — such as never greet 
 Another's hearing — in such raptures flow 
 That all His presence is alight with song : 
 And as He walks, the blessed saints do throng 
 
 About His footsteps, praising ceaselessly ; 
 And we, when we awaken, yet shall see 
 What those who know Him best have known full 
 long- 
 All hearts that love Him keep Him company. 
 February, 1889. ZeTE. 
 
BALLADE. II9 
 
 BALLADE. 
 
 W. R. GORDON. 
 
 When tender flowers from the earth are springing, 
 
 And lend the morning air their fragrance sweet ; 
 When maidens seek the pale arbutus clinging 
 
 'Neath last year's leaves that rustle round their 
 feet; 
 
 When with first love their pulses learn to beat, 
 With lovers wandering through the sunlit ways, 
 
 Then, like a dream with happiness replete, 
 I call to mind a love of by-gone days. 
 
 When to his mate the night-bird's song is ringing 
 
 Down from the oak-tree's moonlit waving crest, 
 In trembling notes, his sweetest love-tale singing 
 
 To her, as she sits brooding on their nest ; 
 
 When all save bird and breeze have gone to rest, 
 And over all there falls the moonlight's haze. 
 
 Then, all alone, with hot tears scarce suppressed, 
 I call to mind a love of by-gone days. 
 
 When autumn-time the blighting frost is bringing, 
 
 And meadow-flowers begin to droop and die ; 
 When birds, in headlong flight, are swiftly winging 
 
 Their way into a sunnier, southern sky ; 
 
 When clouds above, in shapeless masses fly, 
 And winter, coming, suffers no delays, 
 
 Then, like a vision that floats slowly by, 
 I call to mind a love of by-gone days. 
 
I20 THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 
 
 ENVOI. 
 
 When hope after hope falls, blighted, and decays. 
 Like wilted petals of a summer rose, 
 Know, then, 'tis sweet, amidst our griefs and 
 woes. 
 
 To call to mind a love of by-gone days. 
 
 April, 1889. W. L. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES. 
 
 GEORGE L. LYMAN. 
 
 *Tls said the days of fairies 
 Have long since passed away ; 
 
 That hushed are all their merry sports, 
 And stilled their thoughtless play. 
 
 The careless, merry, naughty sprites, 
 
 Who lured the traveller on 
 With elfish lanterns burning bright. 
 
 They say have long since gone. 
 
 And yet there is one fairy left — 
 
 For fear she might depart. 
 To join once more her happy race, 
 
 I shut her in my heart. 
 
THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES, 121 
 
 At least I thought I'd shut her up, 
 
 But by her magic power 
 She's gained the mastery of me, 
 
 And rules me to this hour. 
 
 She is a cunning tyrant. 
 
 Who rules by dint of smiles — 
 How can so soft a heart as mine 
 
 Resist her witching wiles ? 
 
 There is a pair of elf-lamps, too, 
 
 Which others may not see. 
 But which, wherever I may go. 
 
 Dance luringly 'round me. 
 
 Their light is clear and radiant, 
 
 They sparkle, glow, and leap ; 
 They will not let me work or play — 
 
 They steal away my sleep. 
 
 They flit about my study ; 
 
 They chase me in the street ; 
 However I may hide away. 
 
 They spy out my retreat. 
 
 And yet I do not hate them — 
 
 The fairy and the lights — 
 Although they rob my waking thoughts 
 
 And fill my dreams at nights. 
 
122 LIFE, 
 
 No, no ! I love them dearly ! 
 
 Why ? Do not be surprised — 
 The fairy is my own true love, 
 
 The lanterns are her eyes 1 
 
 April, 1889. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 W. S. HAMILTON. 
 
 A SAILOR-BOY looks out upon the sea. 
 
 Whose sunlit bosom gently swells and falls ; 
 He longs to set his new-made vessel free 
 
 And follow whither tempting fortune calls. 
 The bright waves lift their snowy caps to him, 
 
 And nod their heads, and talk of other lands, 
 And, pointing where the distant sails grow dim, 
 
 They come to tell strange secrets to the sands. 
 The young boy's heart is filled with ecstasy — 
 
 New power and promise never known before— 
 'Oh, thou art fair and smiling, gentle sea ! 
 
 Why do I linger longer on thy shore? 
 And I will love thee, for thou art to me 
 
 The mistress of all hope I must pursue ; 
 And I will trust my untried bark to thee. 
 
 For naught can be so fair but must be true. 
 
AUNT PHCEBE'S REMONSTRANCE. ^2^ 
 
 "My father told dark tales of storms and rocks, 
 
 He swore that thou wert false and fickle, sea ; 
 His ship went down one night in tempest shocks, 
 
 And men said 'twas because he trusted thee. 
 But that was in a storm. I'll not believe 
 
 Their stories now, for storms are of the past ; 
 My voyage is future, and could'st thou deceive 
 
 While such sweet smiles of wooing beauty last ?" 
 
 * -x- -x- -x- * -Jt 
 
 Another wreck is found upon the shore, 
 
 And treacherous waves are shouting in their 
 glee ; 
 But still the gentle deep will smile once more 
 
 When sailor-boys look out upon the sea. 
 
 March, 1890. N. B. K. 
 
 AUNT PHOEBE'S REMONSTRANCE. 
 
 R. F. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Afy Mistis ! You gwine marry her, you say ! 
 'Fo' Gord, now, Marster, you's foolin' me, I knows ; 
 Gwine tek dat little gal o* ourn away ! 
 
 Why, she ain't nuthin* mo'n a chile ! 
 
 You go back home and wait awhile, 
 Untel she grows. 
 
 Why, Marster, 'twa'n't but little while ergo 
 Dat I fuss hel* her in ole Missis' room ; 
 
124 ^^.Vr PHCEBE'S REMONSTRANCE, 
 
 An' now you tells me she's done grow'd up ? Sho, 
 Dat chile ain't no mo' fittin* fer 
 To marry you, I tell you, sir, 
 
 Dan dis here broom. 
 
 She sholy was a fine-raised chile, I knows, 
 Kaze I he'p raise her, sir ; I brung her up. 
 When she wa'n't mo'n ten years ole, I s'pose, 
 Ole Miss' use* stan' her by de wall, 
 'N' she'd say de twelb commandments all 
 Widout a stop. 
 
 An* when I use* to tek her up to bade, 
 Jes' sharp at eight — ole Miss' was punkshall, sho — 
 I'd tek her in my lap an* comb her hade, 
 An* den I'd tell de stories to her 
 'Bout raslin' Jacob an' Marse Noah 
 An' his rainbow. 
 
 One day ole Marster tuck her off to school, 
 Whar de gret folks had dere chillen larn. 
 When she come back, she'd set on dat dar stool, 
 'N' play dat piany till it soun* 
 Fit like Brer Gabriel done come down 
 Here wid his harn. 
 
 An* now you*s gwine to tek my chile away ? 
 What's me 'n 'old Miss' gwine do widout her den .? 
 
PARAPHRASE OF HORACE, 125 
 
 What make dat you cyarn't come down here an' 
 stay ? 
 Gwine tek dat preshus lam* wid you 
 Fum Miss' and her old mammy, too — 
 Say, Marster, when ? 
 
 Not 'fo' nex' fall ! Oh, thank de Lord ob Grace ! 
 Kaze we's gwine hab her fer a little while ! 
 When she's done gone, 'twon't be de same ole place. 
 
 But we befo' de Lord mus' bow — 
 
 Thank'ee, Marster — lemme go now 
 An' fin* my chile. 
 
 April, 1890. W. 
 
 PARAPHRASE OF HORACE. 
 
 BOOK II. ODE III. 
 
 CHARLES POLLARD COCKE. 
 
 Remember thou a changeless mind in adverse fate 
 
 to keep. 
 Nor let thy heart 'mid prosperous things in pride 
 
 within thee leap, 
 O Dellius, destined soon to go to dreary Hades' 
 
 realms below. 
 
 Whether thou liv'st thy span of life, endued with 
 all regret. 
 
 Or stretched in some green, shady nook, thy sor- 
 rows doth forget. 
 
 Or through the festal days recline, blessed with 
 Falernia's lusty wine, 
 
126 PARAPHRASE OF HORACE. 
 
 Where overhead, with loving leaves, a shelt'ring 
 
 shade entwine. 
 The silver poplar's branches and the sprays of 
 
 mighty pine, 
 And where the murmuring streamlet pranks, the 
 
 brightest blossoms from her banks, 
 
 Bring thither wines and perfumes and the short- 
 lived blooms that blow, 
 
 The roses' blooms that fade and fall with coming 
 of the snow : 
 
 These — these enjoy while youth from thee keeps 
 weftage of the Sisters Three. 
 
 For thou must yield thy acres broad and naught 
 
 from thy house save, 
 And leave thy villa which the floods of tawny 
 
 Tiber lave, 
 An heir the wealth will soon obtain, which thou 
 
 heap'st up, O man, in vain. 
 
 It nothing matters whether sprung from Inachus 
 
 of old, 
 A rich man, or a pauper born of even the lowliest 
 
 mould. 
 Thou dwellest under earth's clear sky, thou who 
 
 with death must dwell for aye. 
 
FORE SH A DO WINGS, 1 2 7 
 
 We mortals all are forced to come unto the self- 
 same bourne, 
 
 The lot of each falls soon or late from out the 
 shaken urn, 
 
 And launches him upon the sea ruled o'er by pale 
 Persephone. 
 April, 1891. C. P. C. 
 
 FORESHADOWINGS. 
 
 JAMES LINDSAY GORDON. 
 
 You laugh me down with light and pitying scorn 
 Because I cannot let one sorrow pass ; 
 You think the air too summer-sweet, the grass 
 Too green and fresh, the roseate, wind-stirred 
 
 morn 
 Too golden with the light of joys new born 
 For grief to cloud the soul's translucent glass 
 With breath of bitter lips that cry, " Alas ! 
 Where have the old days and the old hopes gone?" 
 
 Dearest, I am no prophet of evil — yet 
 
 I know a day shall come at Time's sure call, 
 
 When you, O radiant mocker at regret. 
 
 Will cry, as from your hands love's flowers fall. 
 
 While those divine eyes, shadowless now, grow 
 
 wet : 
 *• I know, at last — I understand it all ! " 
 
 June, 1891. J. L. G. 
 
128 BALLADE OF CHEERFUL VERSE, 
 BALLADE OF CHEERFUL VERSE. 
 
 J. S. DOUBLEDAY. 
 
 Write me a gay ballade 
 
 Or saucy villanelle, 
 In numbers clear and glad — 
 
 Like waters of Chapelle. 
 I want no faint " Ah ! well ! " 
 
 Or grief that pierces Hades ; 
 But some clear-cut roundel 
 
 That's sure to please the ladies. 
 
 I want no Galahad 
 
 Nor pining Astrophel, 
 Nor versified salade 
 
 Of wit a Max O'Rell ; 
 Nor sonnets to Estelle, 
 
 Nor odes to Sals and Sadies ; 
 But some sharp kyrielle 
 
 That's sure to please the ladies. 
 
 Write me the latest fad — 
 
 Something that's ultra swell, 
 Something that's " not so bad," 
 
 Something that does to tell ; 
 I want no di'lect spell 
 
 Of Remus's and Brady's, 
 But something (in a shell) 
 
 That's sure to please the ladies. 
 
ON TYING DAPHNE'S SHOE. 129 
 
 l'envoi. 
 So, Muse, my yearning quell 
 
 With something that well-paid is, 
 And wear a cap and bell 
 That's sure to please the ladies. 
 » November, 1891. J* S. D. 
 
 AT DAWN. 
 CHARLES POLLARD COCKE. 
 
 Night's last hour brought before Dawn's judg- 
 ment-bar, 
 Lies there, touched dead by his diviner eyes, 
 While from the flushing deep of Orient skies 
 
 The waves of light wash round the morning-star. 
 October, 1892. 
 
 ON TYING DAPHNE'S SHOE. 
 
 J. STUART BRYAN. 
 
 Tying her shoe, I knelt at Daphne's feet. 
 My fumbling fingers found such service sweet, 
 And lingered o'er the task till, when I rose, 
 Cupid had bound me captive in her bows. 
 October, 1892. 
 9 
 
I30 THE FLIRT. 
 
 THE FLIRT. 
 
 JOHN S. MOSBY. 
 
 [This hitherto unknown tragedy was lately discovered in the 
 ruins of a Greek temple at Mycenae. It is supposed to be one 
 of the early plays of ^schylus.] 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONiE. 
 
 PHiCON, a Law Student. 
 
 Philomel, a last year's Graduate. 
 
 Phyllis, a College Belle. 
 
 Janitor. 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Chorus of Law Students. 
 
 Chorus of Professors. 
 
 Chorus of College Belles. 
 
 Chorus of College Widows. 
 
 Chorus of College Bums, 
 
 Scene. — The Portico of a University Rotunda; 
 time, '8g. 
 
 Enter Janitor. 
 
 Janitor. I am the Janitor. For year on year 
 Within these classic halls I've swept the floors 
 And carried out the trash ; I toll the bell 
 Whose sullen clang the tardy student calls 
 To lecture unprepared ; anon I go 
 With awful summons armed to bid some wretch, 
 Who's "cut" too many lectures, or, mayhap, 
 Has made night howl as did the Bacchant throng 
 That revelled on the snowy hills of Thrace, 
 
THE FLIRT. 13 1 
 
 Come haste before the Chairman to receive 
 His final judgment, or — accursed fate — 
 For nine long months to shun the glowing cup 
 Of Norton's seedling and the amber juice 
 Pressed from Kentucky's fairest fields of corn. 
 
 \Exit. 
 
 Enter Chorus of Law Students with PHiEON. 
 
 All. Legal Students all, we come 
 Hurrying to the lecture-room, 
 Saturated with the lore 
 Culled last night from Volume IV. 
 Each appliance 
 In this science 
 
 Framed for victimizing clients 
 We shall study o'er and o'er. 
 Our minds are deeply fraught 
 With the mysteries of tort 
 And the way that suits are brought. 
 Subtle differences we see 
 'Twixt the Law and Equity, 
 And we know the craven natures 
 Of Virginia Legislatures. 
 Yet at times we must confess 
 We're a little mixed, we guess ; 
 Laws of Rents, and Writs of Error, 
 Shelley's Case, Parol Demurrer 
 Twist and dance in motley train 
 Through our overburdened brain. 
 But if you want to make B. L., 
 
132 THE FLIRT. 
 
 Know 'tis not by steady toil, 
 Burning dim the midnight oil. 
 Laugh ye, laugh ye, long and well 
 At the jokes Professors tell ! 
 
 {Exit all but Ph^eon. 
 
 PhcBon. Hamlet's famed soliloquy 
 Was " to be or not to be." 
 Mine is no such question, but 
 'Tis cut or not to cut. 
 When I came six months ago 
 I resolved to study so. 
 Study and shun "Calico." 
 But lately in the Easter dance 
 Phyllis fair I met by chance ; 
 I was finished at a glance. 
 Never maid as fair as she 
 Tripped the vales of Arcady. 
 And she loves me, this I kno\v ; 
 She herself has told me so. 
 And she couldn't lie — oh, no ! 
 Then she says her only aim 
 Is to feed our constant flame. 
 I'll "cut" lecture then to-day. 
 And I'll seek her out straightway ; 
 Though my Governor complains 
 Of my bills at King's and Payne's, 
 Soon behind a spanking team 
 We shall live in Love's young dream. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
THE FLIRT. 133 
 
 Enter Chorus of College Belles with Phyllis. 
 
 Chorus. Aren't we charming ? 
 Aren't we pretty ? 
 Graceful ? Tempting ? 
 Chatty ? Witty ? 
 Careless of maternal prudence, 
 We will flirt with College Students. 
 They're at lecture, what a pity ! 
 Critics say we have our faults. 
 But how gracefully we waltz ! 
 Critics are distasteful to us 
 As a dose of doctor's salts. 
 But we like the men adoring, 
 On their bended knees imploring 
 For our hearts, as if, poor creatures, 
 We would ever let them teach us 
 Such a thing as constant love. 
 Innocence and art we mix. 
 Playing our coquettish tricks, 
 While we talk "Jeff." politics. 
 Looking all the while as charming 
 As the angels from above. 
 Oh, we are the very sweetest 
 And the neatest 
 And completest 
 Set of girls that ever tripped a measure on 
 
 a German floor. 
 That is what the students tell us — 
 Oh, the dear, delightful fellows ! — 
 
134 THE FLIRT. 
 
 How we make the Widows jealous ! 
 How they thirst for our gore ! 
 
 {Exit all but Phyllis. 
 
 Enter Chorus of College Widows {chanting in a 
 7ninor key). 
 
 Chorus, Oh, how the light of sunny April days 
 Digs up the bones of buried memories ! 
 The sight of these white arcades to us bring 
 The recollection of some long-dead Spring, 
 When we, as fair and fresh as flowers of May, 
 Did flirt and flirt and flirt the livelong day. 
 Too uncontent with one true heart, we strove 
 To keep a half a dozen men in love, 
 And through the dance of life we whirled so fast, 
 Nor dreamed the piper must be paid at last. 
 Then we grew old, our charms began to wane 
 And left the fruits that follow folly's train. 
 Cold, deadened feelings and an empty brain ; 
 Nor can we turn the wheels of time again, 
 
 Phyllis. I wonder where my Phaeon can have 
 gone ? 
 To lecture ? No ; I've got him too well trained 
 To spend his time in thumbing drowsy books 
 When he can sit and gaze into mine eyes. 
 
 Chorus. Oh, maiden so fair. 
 
 In thy morning of youth, 
 Be careful, beware, 
 Be cautious, beware, 
 
THE FLIRT. 135 
 
 We are telling the truth. 
 Do not flirt — oh, forbear, 
 You will rue it in sooth. 
 Phyllis, Get you hence, I don't care. 
 Chorus, You are Philomel's own, 
 So let Phaeon alone, 
 
 Or you'll be in the soup ere the roses are blown. 
 Phyllis. I told you to go, hush your dull mono- 
 tone. 
 Chorus. Oh, listen, we pray thee ; 
 If nothing can stay thee. 
 Then gaze on us Widows left weeping alone. 
 
 Phyllis. You're horrid and hateful. 
 You're ugly, deceitful. 
 I'll do as I please to, as sure as you're born. 
 
 Chorus. Then go thy way, young, headstrong 
 Miss, 
 Nor give us any thanks 
 For good advice, but hearken this — 
 Beware, you'll join our ranks. 
 
 {Exit Chorus of College Widows. 
 
 Phyllis. There, hear them lecture me like some 
 old Prof. 
 They're jealous of the conquests that I make, 
 That's all ; for what did nature give to me 
 Eyes like the fawn's, lips like the opening rose. 
 And the sweet smile of artless innocence — 
 Unless to chain men's hearts ? I'm far too sweet 
 To be content with one — that's Philomel^ 
 
136 THE FLIRT. 
 
 Who just last session, falling deep in love, 
 Did woo and win what little heart I have. 
 And now in two short weeks he doth return 
 To wed me ; Til just have what fun I can 
 With Phaeon until Philomel returns. 
 
 Enter PH.EON. 
 
 PhcBon. You here ? I've sought you every- 
 where. As rest 
 To travellers or beer to students, so 
 Are you unto my longing eyes, sweet love. 
 
 {^Kisses her, 
 
 Phyllis. Oh, Phason, when I am with you I feel 
 As though this earth were paradise. My heart 
 Doth throb in ecstasy. 
 
 PhcEon. But is there none 
 Whom you love more ? One Philomel, I hear, 
 Doth hold that heart in thrall, and people say 
 You are engaged to him. 
 
 Phyllis. Oh, Phason, how 
 Can you so doubt my burning love for you, 
 And believe the lies the carping gossips tell ! 
 I love but you, nor ever did or shall 
 Love any man one tittle of as much. 
 This Philomel, I swear, is naught to me. 
 Nor I to him. 
 
 Phceon. Sweetheart, that is enough. 
 I'd believe you over hosts ; come, let us go 
 And take a drive. 
 
THE FLIRT. 137 
 
 Phyllis \aside\. I knew 'twas coming ! 
 These buggy-drives are such delightful things 
 For spooning ! Oh ! 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 Messenger. My lady, here's a note. 
 The writer bade me use the winged feet 
 Of Mercury, and anxious doth he wait 
 An answer. 
 
 Phyllis [aside]. O ye Gods! from Philomel, 
 Who, unexpected, hath arrived and bids 
 Me meet him at my home this very hour ! 
 Ridiculous ! I cannot miss a drive 
 For half a doz^n fiances; not I ! 
 
 What a pretty mess I'm in : 
 
 Isn't it a perfect sin 
 
 Philomel should come ? I've been 
 
 Just too cunning in the ways 
 
 I've managed these two lovers. 
 
 Heavens, what a row 'twould raise 
 
 If my flirting he discovers ! 
 
 But this messenger I'll tell 
 
 Soothing words for Philomel. 
 
 Then, with Phaeon by my side, 
 
 I shall take my buggy-ride. 
 
 [To Messenger. 
 Say thou to Philomel I fain would look 
 This instant on his sweet, dear face, and say 
 How much I love ; but duty bids me stay 
 With a sick friend, who languishes in pain. 
 I shall be with him soon. 
 
13^ THE FLIRT, 
 
 [To Ph^on. 
 
 Come, Phaeon, hurry. [Exetmt omnes. 
 
 Enter Chorus of Professors. They join hands in 
 
 two co7iceniric circles afid chant as they 
 
 move slowly in opposite directions. 
 
 Chorus : Strophe (a). For years collectively 
 we've sought 
 To see if we could find 
 A single great or little thought 
 Unknown to our mind. 
 Yet not one instance can we "spot," 
 Or find the smallest grain 
 Of knowledge that we haven't got, 
 We've sought for more in vain. 
 
 Anti-Strophe {a). We know it all, we know it all, 
 We've sought for more in vain. 
 
 Strophe {b). From Adam's birth, one early day 
 In that Primeval Spring, 
 To some last week's discovery, 
 We know each single thing. 
 There's nought beyond our mental sight. 
 Or that we can't explain. 
 Our knowledge taps the Infinite ; 
 We've sought for more in vain. 
 
 Anti-Strophe {b). We know it all, we know it all, 
 We've sought for more in vain. 
 
 [Exit Chorus of Professors. 
 Enter Phaeon. 
 
 PhcEon, I've had a drive with my best girl. 
 And now I'm on a bum. 
 
THE FLIRT, 139 
 
 The merry billiard ball I'll twirl, 
 And drink Jamaica rum. 
 But then I'd like good company — 
 I wish the gang would come. 
 
 Enter Chorus of College Bums. 
 
 Chorus, We're drunk as an owl ! 
 Do we show it ? 
 And we all want to howl, 
 
 •Let us do it ! 
 Yow ! we're here ! 
 Can't you tell it ? 
 We're loaded with beer, 
 Can't you smell it ?. 
 We've a mortgage on the College and a lien on 
 
 the State. 
 When we get full on beer we own creation up to 
 
 date. 
 When liquor gets the upper hand of our addled 
 
 brains, 
 We rival the Coyotes of the Colorado plains. 
 We know that we are gentlemen ; but, then, it is 
 
 the mark 
 Of gentlemen to, act like fiends when they are on 
 
 a lark. 
 So take a drink, O Phason, dear, we'll raise plu- 
 perfect Cain, 
 And when we sober up, why, then — we'll all get 
 full again ! 
 
 [PH.EON drinks. 
 
14^ THE FLIRT. 
 
 Enter Janitor. 
 Janitor, The Chairman, Phaeon, craves a word 
 with thee. 
 Immediately his brow is overcast 
 Like dun Cithaeron when the winter's storm 
 Beats on his craggy front. 
 
 PhcEon. Ah, woe is me ! 
 
 My name is Dennis ! For too much I've cut 
 My lectures, and I know he'll smell my breath. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 Enter Philomel. 
 
 Philotnel. A pretty game ! Some sick friend, 
 
 so she said. 
 And yet I saw her not an hour ago. 
 Driving with some young Dudeling. Ay, and 
 
 more, 
 I saw them kiss like doves ; I've had enough ! 
 I'm wiser than I was twelve months ago. 
 
 Enter Phyllis. 
 
 Phyllis, Dear Philomel ! My own ! How long 
 it seems 
 Since last on you I feasted these fond eyes ! 
 And now — but why so cold and why so stern ? 
 You do not kiss me. 
 
 Philomel, I have seen your friend. 
 Whose pain you soothed — a buggy-drive, ha ! ha ! 
 The joke's on me, but I shall trump your trick. 
 My lady, find your fiance elsewhere. 
 
THE FLIRT. 141 
 
 Phyllis. What ! Philomel, you will not leave me 
 so? 
 Do but forgive this little one offence, 
 Or else you break my heart. I swear to you 
 My love is yours, and for the man you saw 
 I care, oh, less than nothing. 
 
 Philomel. And for you 
 
 I care about the same. I leave to-day, 
 Nor shall return. Farewell, my pretty maid. 
 
 YExit Philomel. 
 
 Enter Chorus of College Widows. 
 Chorus. Did we not tell thee to beware, 
 O pretty, headstrong maiden ? 
 This flirting is a cunning snare, 
 And thoughtless girls who venture there 
 Find pleasure sorrow-laden. 
 Phyllis. Unhappy day when first I saw the light ! 
 
 Enter Janitor. 
 yanitor. Ah, woe ! woe ! woe ! another man 
 
 gone wrong ! 
 Phyllis, Who is it ? I pry thee tell me quick ! 
 Janitor. Ye ladies who stand round about me 
 here ! 
 Ye summer clouds that gather in the skies ! 
 Weep, weep for Phaeon, he returns to us no more. 
 Phyllis. I knew *twas he ! Has Phason gone ? 
 Oh, my last hope ! 
 
 Janitor. Alas, 'tis true, my lady. 
 For hardly had. he reached the Chairman's room 
 
142 THE FLIRT, 
 
 Before the smell of beer did fill the air, 
 
 Overpowering ; then the Chairman, wroth before. 
 
 By reason of the lectures he had "cut," 
 
 Did rage upon him like the Afric blast 
 
 That tears the whistling cordage from the yards 
 
 Of some great merchantman, and strews the main 
 
 With broken masts ; so did the Chairman rage. 
 
 And swore that Phason already too long 
 
 Had much abused his patience. He must go. 
 
 He gave him just one little hour to leave, 
 
 And cautioned him to no more disgrace 
 
 The arcades with his presence. He has gone 
 
 To rusticate upon a cattle ranch 
 
 In Western Texas. Oh ! unhappy fate ! 
 
 Phyllis. Yes, wretche.d fate for him ! but doubly 
 worse 
 For me ! Farewell, O Phason and flirtation ! 
 I see my doom. My destiny shall be 
 A College Widow's ! And my race is run ! 
 She approaches the College Widows and takes 
 
 them by the hand. They all join hajids and 
 
 sing. 
 
 CHORUS OF COLLEGE WIDOWS AND PHYLLIS. 
 
 College Widows all are we ; 
 
 Weeping, grieving ceaselessly. 
 
 Students shun us. 
 
 And upon us 
 
 Vulgar wits heap raillery. 
 
THE FLIRT, I43 
 
 Once we each did have a beau, 
 
 Sometimes five and six, and oh ! 
 
 How entrancing 
 
 Was our dancing ! 
 
 All the students told us so ! 
 
 But those days have passed, 
 
 And aside we have been cast, 
 
 Always thinking, 
 
 Always shrinking 
 
 From old age that comes at last. 
 
 Maidens who, from head to shoon, 
 
 Shine as fair as buds in June, 
 
 Cease your scorning, 
 
 Hear our warning. 
 
 Or you'll join us all too soon. 
 
 \Exeunt omnes. 
 
 December, 1889. KPIO NPTCZ Ks. 
 
 THE END. 
 
YA 0160 
 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY