Part 10

IL BACIO

KISS! Hollyhock in Love’s luxuriant close! Brisk music played on pearly little keys; In tempo with the witching melodies Love in the ardent heart repeating goes.

Sonorous, graceful Kiss, hail! Kiss divine! Unequalled boon, unutterable bliss! Man, bent o’er thine enthralling chalice, Kiss, Grows drunken with a rapture only thine!

Thou comfortest as music does, and wine, And grief dies smothered in thy purple fold. Let one greater than I, Kiss, and more bold, Rear thee a classic, monumental line.

Humble Parisian bard, this infantile Bouquet of rhymes I tender half in fear. . . . Be gracious, and in guerdon, on the dear Red lips of One I know, a light and smile! _Paul Verlaine._

SUR L’HERBE

“THE abbé rambles.”—“You, marquis, Have put your wig on all awry.”— “This wine of Cypress kindles me Less, my Camargo, than your eye!”

“My passion”—“Do, mi, sol, la, si.”— “Abbé, your villainy lies bare.”— “Mesdames, I climb up yonder tree And fetch a star down, I declare.”

“Let each kiss his own lady, then The others.”—“Would that I were, too, A lap-dog!”—“Softly, gentlemen!”— “Do, mi.”—“The moon!—Hey, how d’ye do?” _Paul Verlaine._

THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE

HERE on my desk it lies, Here as the daylight dies, One small glove just her size— Six and a quarter; Pearly gray, a colour neat, _Deux boutons_ all complete, Faint scented, soft and sweet; Could glove be smarter?

Can I the day forget, Years ago, when the pet Gave it me?—where we met Still I remember; Then ’twas the summer time; Now as I write this rhyme Children love pantomime— ’Tis December.

Fancy my boyish bliss Then when she gave me this, And how the frequent kiss Crumpled its fingers; Then she was fair and kind, Now, when I’ve changed my mind, Still some scent undefined On the glove lingers.

Though she’s a matron sage, Yet I have kept the gage; While, as I pen this page, Still comes a goddess, Her eldest daughter, fair, With the same eyes and hair; Happy the arm I swear, That clasps her bodice.

Heaven grant her fate be bright, And her step ever light As it will be to-night, First in the dances. Why did her mother prove False when I dared to love? Zounds! I shall burn the glove! This my romance is. _H. Savile Clarke._

IF

OH, if the world were mine, Love, I’d give the world for thee! Alas! there is no sign, Love, Of that contingency.

Were I a king—which isn’t To be considered now,— A diadem had glistened Upon thy lovely brow.

Had fame with laurels crowned me,— She hasn’t up to date,— Nor time nor change had found me To love and thee ingrate.

If death threw down his gage, Love, Though Life is dear to me, I’d die, e’en of old age, Love, To win a smile from thee.

But being poor we part, Dear, And love, sweet love, must die,— Thou wilt not break thy heart, Dear; No more, I think, shall I. _James Jeffrey Roche._

DON’T

YOUR eyes were made for laughter, Sorrow befits them not; Would you be blithe hereafter, Avoid the lover’s lot.

The rose and lily blended Possess your cheeks so fair; Care never was intended To leave his furrows there.

Your heart was not created To fret itself away, Being unduly mated To common human clay.

But hearts were made for loving,— Confound philosophy! Forget what I’ve been proving, Sweet Phyllis, and love me. _James Jeffrey Roche._

ON REREADING TÉLÉMAQUE

“_Calypso could not console herself_”

I PLACE thee back upon the shelf, O Fénelon, how scant thy knowledge, Who seemed as Solomon himself To me, a callow youth at college!

No need to say thou wert a priest; No need to own that I am human; Mine this advantage is—at least I’ve learned the alphabet of Woman.

And yet but half the truth is told: I do thee wrong, sagacious Mentor,— Calypso could not be consoled Until another man was sent her! _James Jeffrey Roche._

VALENTINE

GREAT Antony, I drink to thee, The Roman lover bold, Who knew the worth of love and earth And gave the dross for gold.

Rich Antony, I envy thee, Who hadst a world to stake, And, win or lose, didst bravely choose To risk it for Her sake.

Poor Antony, I pity thee, So small a world was thine, I’d scorn to lay the prize to-day Before my Valentine! _James Jeffrey Roche._

BIFTEK AUX CHAMPIGNONS

MIMI, do you remember— Don’t get behind your fan— That morning in September On the cliffs of Grand Manan, Where to the shock of Fundy The topmost harebells sway (_Campanula rotundi— folia_: _cf._ Gray)?

On the pastures high and level, That overlook the sea, Where I wondered what the devil Those little things could be That Mimi stooped to gather, As she strolled across the down, And held her dress skirt rather— Oh, now, you needn’t frown.

For you know the dew was heavy, And your boots, I know, were thin; So a little extra brevi- ty in skirts was sure, no sin. Besides, who minds a cousin? First, second, even third,— I’ve kissed ’em by the dozen, And they never once demurred.

“If one’s allowed to ask it,” Quoth I, “_Ma belle cousine_, What have you in your basket?” Those baskets white and green The brave Passamaquoddies Weave out of scented grass, And sell to tourist bodies Who through Mt. Desert pass.

You answered, slightly frowning, “Put down your stupid book— That everlasting Browning!— And come and help me look, _Mushroom_ you spik him English, I call him _champignon_: I’ll teach you to distinguish The right kind from the wrong.”

There was no fog on Fundy That blue September day; The west wind, for that one day, Had swept it all away. The lighthouse glasses twinkled, The white gulls screamed and flew, The merry sheep-bells tinkled, The merry breezes blew.

The bayberry aromatic, The papery immortelles (That give our grandma’s attic That sentimental smell, Tied up in little brush-brooms) Were sweet as new-mown hay, While we went hunting mushrooms That blue September day. _Henry Augustin Beers._

AN EXPLANATION

HER lips were so near That what—else could I do? You’ll be angry, I fear, But her lips were so near— Well, I can’t make it clear, Or explain it to you, But—her lips were so near That—what else could I do? _Walter Learned._

MARJORIE’S KISSES

MARJORIE laughs and climbs on my knee, And I kiss her and she kisses me, I kiss her, but I don’t much care, Because, although she is charming and fair, Marjorie’s only three.

But there will come a time, I ween, When, if I tell her of this little scene, She will smile and prettily blush, and then I shall long in vain to kiss her again, When Marjorie’s seventeen. _Walter Learned._

MISS NANCY’S GOWN

IN days when George the Third was King And ruled the Old Dominion, And Law and Fashion owned the sway Of Parliament’s opinion, A good ship brought across the sea A treasure fair and fine,— Miss Nancy’s gown from London Town, The latest Court design!

The plaited waist from neck to belt Scarce measured half a span; The sleeves, balloon-like, at the top Could hold her feather fan; The narrow skirt with bias gore Revealed an ankle neat, Whene’er she put her dainty foot From carriage step to street!

By skilful hands this wondrous gown Of costliest stuff was made, Cocoons of France on Antwerp looms Wrought to embossed brocade, Where roses red and violets In blooming beauty grew, As if young May were there alway, And June and April too!

And from this bower of delight Miss Nancy reigned a Queen, Nor one disloyal heart rebelled In all her wild demesne: The noble House of Burgesses Forgot its fierce debate O’er rights of Crown, when Nancy’s gown Appeared in Halls of State!

Through jocund reel, or measured tread Of stately minuet, Like fairy vision shone the bloom Of rose and violet, As, hand in hand with Washington, The hero of the day, The smiling face and nymph-like grace Of Nancy led the way!

A century, since that gay time The merry dance was trod, Has passed, and Nancy long has slept Beneath the churchyard sod; Yet on the brocade velvet gown The rose and violet Are blooming bright as on the night She danced the minuet! _Zitella Cocke._

“LE DERNIER JOUR D’UN CONDAMNÉ”

OLD coat, for some three or four seasons We’ve been jolly comrades, but now We part, old companion, forever; To fate, and the fashion, I bow. You’d look well enough at a dinner, I’d wear you with pride at a ball; But I’m dressing to-night for a wedding— My own—and you’d not do at all.

You’ve too many wine-stains about you, You’re scented too much with cigars, When the gaslight shines full on your collar It glitters with myriad stars, That wouldn’t look well at my wedding; They’d seem inappropriate there— Nell doesn’t use diamond powder. She tells me it ruins the hair.

You’ve been out on Cozzen’s piazza Too late, when the evenings were damp, When the moon-beams were silvering Cro’nest, And the lights were all out in the camp. You’ve rested on highly-oiled stairways Too often, when sweet eyes were bright. And somebody’s ball dress—not Nellie’s— Flowed ’round you in rivers of white.

There’s a reprobate looseness about you; Should I wear you to-night, I believe, As I come with my bride from the altar, You’d laugh in your wicked old sleeve, When you felt there the tremulous pressure Of her hand, in its delicate glove, That is telling me shyly, but proudly, Her trust is as deep as her love.

So, go to your grave in the wardrobe, And furnish a feast for the moth, Nell’s glove shall betray its sweet secrets To younger, more innocent cloth. ’Tis time to put on your successor— It’s made in a fashion that’s new; Old coat, I’m afraid it will never Sit as easily on me as you. _George A. Baker._

MY WOOING

ONE evening, many months ago, We two conversed together; It must have been in June or so, For sultry was the weather. The waving branches made the ground With lights and shadows quiver; We sat upon a grassy mound That overhung a river.

We thought, as you’ve perhaps inferred, Our destinies of linking: But neither of us spoke a word, For each of us was thinking. Her ma had lands at Skibbereen, Her pa estates in Devon; And she was barely seventeen, And I was thirty-seven.

We gathered blossoms from the bank, And in the water flung them: We watched them as they rose and sank With flakes of foam among them. As towards the falls in mimic face They sailed—these heads of clover— We watched them quicken in their pace, We watched them tumble over.

We watched them; and our calm repose Seemed calmer for their troubles; We watched them as they sank and rose And battled with the bubbles. We noticed then a little bird, Down at the margin, drinking: But neither of us spoke a word, For each of us was thinking.

At length I thought I fairly might Declare my passion frantic: (The scenery, I’m sure, was quite Sufficiently romantic.) I’d heard a proverb short and quaint My memory—though shady— Informed me it began with “faint,” And finished up with “lady.”

I summoned then the pluck to speak: (I felt I’d have to, one day, I only saw her once a week, And this was only Monday.) I called her angel, duck, and dove, I said I loved her dearly, My words—the whisperings of Love— Were eloquent, or nearly.

I told her that my heart was true, And constant as the river: I said, “I’ll love you as I do, ‘For ever and for ever!’ Oh! let me hear that voice divine—” I stopped a bit and listened; I murmured then, “Be mine, be mine,” She said, “I won’t!”—and isn’t. _Edwin Hamilton._

WINTRY PARIS

OH, the dingy winter days! Oh, the woven blues and greys! Oh, the drizzles and the puddles and the freezing! Nippy Paris to New York Is a sinker to a cork Superstition and tradition all her pleasing.

Oh, the glacial Gallic gloom In a candle-darkened room Sends the spirit of a Gothamite to zero When I found the fire dead And sped shuddering to bed. How I longed to dream of burning Rome and Nero!

Don’t believe them when they say The Parisians all are gay; Not a capital where gaiety so rare is. Why, I positively think My Manhattan blues are pink When contrasted with the blues I had in Paris. _Anonymous._

THE ROSE

MY Lilla gave me yestermorn A rose, methinks in Eden born, And as she gave it, little elf! She blush’d like any rose herself. Then said I, full of tenderness, “Since this sweet rose I owe to you, Dear girl, why may I not possess The lovelier Rose that gave it too?” _Anonymous._

INDECISION

DO I love her? Dimpling red lips at me pouting, Dimpling shoulders at me flouting; No, I don’t!

Do I love her? ’Prisoned in those crystal eyes Purity forever lies; Yes, I do!

Do I love her? Little, wild and wilful fiction, Teasing, torturing contradiction; No, I don’t!

Do I love her? With kind acts and sweet words she Aids and comforts poverty; Yes, I do!

Do I love her? Quick she puts her cuirass on, Stabs with laughter, stings with scorn; No, I don’t!

Do I love her? No! Then to my arms she flies, Filling me with glad surprise; Ah, yes I do! _Anonymous._

LOGIC

I. HER RESPECTABLE PAPA’S

“MY Dear, be sensible. Upon my word, This—for a woman even—is absurd. His income’s not a hundred pounds, I know. He’s not worth loving.”—“But I love him so.”

II. HER MOTHER’S

“You silly child, he is well made and tall; But looks are far from being all in all. His social standing’s low, his family’s low, He’s not worth loving.”—“And I love him so.”

III. HER ETERNAL FRIEND’S

“Is that he picking up the fallen fan? My Dear! he’s such an awkward, ugly man! You must be certain, pet, to answer ‘No.’ He’s not worth loving.”—“And I love him so.”

IV. HER BROTHER’S

“By Jove, were I a girl—thro’ horrid hap— I wouldn’t have a milk-and-water chap. The man has not a single spark of ‘go,’ He’s not worth loving.”—“Yet, I love him so.”

V. HER OWN

“And were he everything to which I’ve listened; Though he were ugly, awkward (and he isn’t)— Poor, low-born, and destitute of ‘go,’ He is worth loving, for I love him so!” _Punch._

CONVERSATIONAL

“HOW’S your father?” came the whisper, Bashful Ned the silence breaking; “Oh, he’s nicely,” Annie murmured, Smilingly the question taking.

Conversation flagged a moment, Hopeless Ned essayed another: “Annie, I—I,” then a coughing, And the question, “How’s your mother?”

“Mother? Oh, she’s doing finely!” Fleeting fast was all forbearance, When in low, despairing accents, Came the climax, “How’s your parents?” _Anonymous._

IF YOU WANT A KISS, WHY, TAKE IT

THERE’S a jolly Saxon proverb That is pretty much like this— That a man is half in heaven If he has a woman’s kiss. There is danger in delaying, For the sweetness may forsake it; So I tell you, bashful lover, If you want a kiss, why, take it.

Never let another fellow Steal a march on you in this; Never let a laughing maiden See you spoiling for a kiss. There’s a royal way to kissing, And the jolly ones who make it Have a motto that is winning,— If you want a kiss, why, take it.

Any fool may face a cannon, Anybody wear a crown, But a man must win a woman If he’d have her for his own. Would you have the golden apple, You must find the tree and shake it; If the thing is worth the having, And you want a kiss, why take it.

Who would burn upon a desert With a forest smiling by? Who would change his sunny summer For a bleak and wintry sky? Oh, I tell you there is magic, And you cannot, cannot break it; For the sweetest part of loving Is to want a kiss, and take it. _Anonymous._

EDUCATIONAL COURTSHIP

SHE was a Boston maiden, and she’d scarcely passed eighteen, And as lovely as an houri, but of grave and sober mien, A sweet encyclopædia of every kind of lore, Though love looked coyly from behind the glasses that she wore.

She sat beside her lover, with her elbow on his knee, And dreamily she gazed upon the slumbering summer sea, Until he broke the silence, saying, “Pray, Minerva, dear, Inform me of the meaning of the Thingness of the Here?

“I know you’re just from Concord, where the lights of wisdom be, Your head crammed full to bursting with their philosophy,— Those hairy-headed sages and maids of hosiery blue; Then solve me the conundrum, love, that I have put to you.”

She smiled a dreamy smile, and said, “The Thingness of the Here Is that which is not passed and hasn’t yet arrived, my dear. Indeed,” the maid continued, with a calm, unruffled brow, “The Thingness of the Here is just the Thingness of the Now.”

A smile illumed the lover’s face; then, without undue haste, He slid a manly arm around the maiden’s slender waist, And on her cherry lips impressed a warm and loving kiss, And said, “Love, this is what I call the Nowness of the This.” _Anonymous._

KISSING’S NO SIN

SOME say that kissing’s a sin; But I think it’s nane ava, For kissing has wonn’d in this warld Since ever there was twa.

O, if it wasna lawfu’ Lawyers wadna allow it; If it wasna holy, Ministers wadna do it.

If it wasna modest, Maidens wadna tak’ it; If it wasna plenty, Puir folks wadna get it. _Anonymous._

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD

WHAT’S the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, _so_, you’re loved again. What’s the best thing in the world?— Something out of it, I think. _Anonymous._

HER NEIGHBOURS

THEY lingered at her father’s door, The moon was shining bright, And to the maiden o’er and o’er The youth had said, “Good night.”

But still reluctant to depart, Her tiny hand he pressed, While all the love that filled his heart His ardent looks confessed.

At length she closer to him crept, Her eyes upon him bent, And softly asked, “How have you kept, Thus far, the fast of Lent?”

He smiled, and, as a manly arm Around her waist he threw, He said, “I’ve done no neighbour harm— Pray, tell me, how have you?”

“Oh! better far, I’m sure,” she said, The charming little elf. “I’ve loved (she blushed and bent her head) My neighbour as myself.”

“Who is your neighbour?” questioned he, As to his breast he drew The gentle maid, and blushing, she With one word answered—“You.” _Anonymous._

TO CELIA

(_Who refuses to be drawn into an argument_)

DEAR, if you carelessly agree, With that so irritating air, To every word that falls from me— Dear, if you care

To drive a lover to despair With bland “Oh, yes,” and “Ah, I see,”— Why, do it, if you like—so there!

It vindicates my theory No woman’s wise as well as fair; And yet ... how clever you can be, Dear, if you care! _E. H. Lacon Watson._

IN FOR IT

I ROSE betimes, and donned a suit Of clothes, whose fit immaculate Was not a question for dispute, Whose cut was far above debate. I breakfasted, or rather tried, But strange my appetite behaving, A., B. and S. alone supplied My feeble craving.

I fidgeted about the place, I smoothed my hat some twenty times, I almost cursed the clock’s slow pace And listened for the neighb’ring chimes— I stretched my gloves—they were a pair Of lemon kids, extremely “fetching”; And so I used peculiar care About the stretching.

’Twas past eleven when my friend Arrived, and took me ’neath his wing, For he had promised to attend Upon me kindly, and “to bring Me smiling to the scratch,” as he Was pleased to term it, being merry, ’Twas quite another thing with me; ’Twas diff’rent, very.

We drove to Church, and there I found Myself the object of each gaze; I hardly dared to look around, I felt completely in a maze— We had to wait, I dropped my hat, Then split a glove in very flurry, Grew hot, and wished devoutly that The rest would hurry.

When all was o’er, we had to face A grinning crowd’s rude gaping stare, I strove to don unconscious grace, And look as if I didn’t care— We braved it out, got home, and then There came a plethora of kissin’: Of course I took good care the men Did not join this in.

We next were victims of a meal, A melancholy sad pretence, And I thereat was made to feel How hard it is to utter sense: The carriage came at last, and we For not a single moment tarried, And driving off, it dawned on me That I was married. _Somerville Gibney._

KIRTLE RED

A DAMSEL fair, on a summer’s day— —Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer! Sat under a tree in a kirtle gray, Singing, “Somebody’s late at tryst to-day; Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Or the leaves may fall in summer!”

Answered a little bird overhead— As birds will do in summer; “Some body _has_ kept tryst,” it said, “With somebody else in a kirtle red, And they are going to be marrièd.” Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer!

“With all my heart, little bird,” said she; Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer! “He’s welcome to kirtle red for me; Somebody’s fast, while somebody’s free! There’s nothing, no, nothing, like libertie!” —Sing heigh, sing ho, for the summer! _W. H. Bellamy._

A BAGATELLE