Part 8

I wonder if—What’s that? A knock? Is that you, James? Eh? What? God bless me! How time has flown! It’s eight o’clock, And here’s my fellow come to dress me. Be quick, or I shall be the guest Whom Lady Mary never pardons; I trust you, James, to do your best To save the soup at Grosvenor Gardens. _H. D. Traill._

A LETTER OF ADVICE

WHEN you love—as all men will— Sing the theme of your devotion, Sue—and vow—and worship still— Overflow with deep emotion, Bow to Cupid’s sweet decrees, Lightly wear the happy fetter, Bend the knee and plead! But please, Do not write your love a letter!

Ah! most tempting it may be: Ink flows free—and pens will write, And your passion fain you’d see Plainly mapped in black and white. Yet refrain from shedding ink, If you can:—’tis wiser—better. Ere you pen a sentence, think! Do not write your love a letter.

Hearts may cool, and views may change— Other scenes may seem inviting, But a heart can’t safely range If committed ’tis to writing. What you’ve written is a writ, Holds you closely as a debtor. Will she spare you? Not a bit! Do not write your love a letter!

Think of Breach of Promise cause, Think of barristers provoking, Leading you to slips and flaws, Turning all your love to joking. If you’ve written aught, they’ll be Safe to find it as a setter— Then you’ll wish you’d hearkened me— Do not write your love a letter!

Oh, those letters read in Court! How the tender things seem stupid! How deep feeling seems but sport! How young Momus trips up Cupid! Take my warning then—or soon, O’er your folly you’ll be fretter, Saying, “Why, poor, foolish spoon, Did I write my love a letter?” _Thomas Hood, Jr._

AT THE LATTICE

BEHIND the curtain, With glance uncertain, Peeps pet Florence as I gaily ride; Half demurely, But, though purely Most, most surely Wishing she were riding, riding by my side.

In leafy alleys, Where sunlight dallies, Pleasant were it, bonnie, to be riding rein by rein; And where summer tosses, All about in bosses, Velvet verdant mosses, Still more pleasant, surely, to dismount again.

O thou Beauty! Hanging ripe and fruity At the muslined lattice in the drooping eve, Whisper from the casement If that blushing face meant, “At the cottage basement, Gallant, halt, I come to thee; I come to never leave.”

But if those coy lashes Stir for whoso dashes Past the scented window in the fading light, Close the lattice, sweetest; Darkness were discreetest; And, with bridle fleetest, I will gallop onwards, unattended through the night. _Alfred Austin._

FRENCH WITH A MASTER

TEACH you French? I will, my dear! Sit and con your lesson here. What did Adam say to Eve? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._

Don’t pronounce the last word long; Make it short to suit the song; Rhyme it to your flowing sleeve, _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.

Sleeve, I said, but what’s the harm If I really meant your arm? Mine shall twine it (by your leave), _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.

Learning French is full of slips; Do as I do with the lips; Here’s the right way, you perceive, _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.

French is always spoken best Breathing deeply from the chest; Darling, does your bosom heave? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._

Now, my dainty little sprite, Have I taught your lesson right? Then what pay shall I receive? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._

Will you think me overbold If I linger to be told Whether you yourself believe _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.

Pretty pupil, when you say All this French to me to-day, Do you mean it, or deceive? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._

Tell me, may I understand, When I press your little hand, That our hearts together cleave? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._

Have you in your tresses room For some orange-buds to bloom? May I such a garland weave? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._

Or, if I presume too much Teaching French by sense of touch, Grant me pardon and reprieve! _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._

Sweetheart, no! you cannot go! Let me sit and hold you so; Adam did the same to Eve,— _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_. _Theodore Tilton._

ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA

THE cunning hand that carved this face, A little helmeted Minerva— The hand, I say, ere Phidias wrought, Had lost its subtle skill and fervour.

Who was he? Was he glad or sad? Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he shaped this dainty head For some brown girl that Scorned his passion.

But he is dust: we may not know His happy or unhappy story: Nameless and dead these thousand years, His work outlives him—there’s his glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The thousand summers came and went, With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.

The years wiped out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom. Till some Visconti dug it up, To rise and fall on Mabel’s bosom.

O Roman brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded; See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

Who would not suffer slights of men And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so! _Thomas Bailey Aldrich._

THE LUNCH

A GOTHIC window, where a damask curtain Made the blank daylight shadowy and uncertain: A slab of agate ore four Eagle-talons Held trimly up and neatly taught to balance: A porcelain dish, o’er which in many a cluster Black grapes hung down, dead ripe and without lustre: A melon cut in thin, delicious slices: A cake that seemed mosaic-work in spices: Two China cups with golden tulips sunny, And rich inside with chocolate like honey: And she and I the banquet-scene completing With dreamy words—and very pleasant eating. _Thomas Bailey Aldrich._

THE WITCH IN THE GLASS

“MY mother says I must not pass Too near that glass; She is afraid that I will see A little witch that looks like me, With a red, red mouth to whisper low The very thing I should not know!”

“Alack for all your mother’s care! A bird of the air, A wistful wind, or (I suppose) Sent by some hapless boy—a rose, With breath too sweet, will whisper low The very thing you should not know!” _Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt._

TO PHŒBE

“GENTLE, modest, little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half-an-hour, Love me, love me, little Fay.” Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming, If I loved you, Phœbe, dear!

“Smiles that thrill from any distance Shed upon me while I sing! Please ecstaticise existence; Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!” Words like these, outpouring sadly, You’d perpetually hear, If I loved you, fondly, madly;— But I do not, Phœbe, dear! _William Schwenck Gilbert._

MY LOVE AND MY HEART

OH, the days were ever shiny When I ran to meet my love; When I press’d her hand so tiny Through her tiny tiny glove. Was I very deeply smitten? Oh, I loved like anything! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart’s a ball of string.

She was pleasingly poetic, And she loved my little rhymes; For our tastes were sympathetic, In the old and happy times. Oh, the ballads I have written, And have taught my love to sing! But my love she is a kitten, And my heart’s a ball of string.

Would she listen to my offer, On my knees I would impart A sincere and ready proffer Of my hand and of my heart. And below her dainty mitten I would fix a wedding ring— But my love she is a kitten, And my heart’s a ball of string.

Take a warning, happy lover, From the moral that I show; Or too late you may discover What I learn’d a month ago. We are scratch’d or we are bitten By the pets to whom we cling. Oh, my love she is a kitten, And my heart’s a ball of string. _Henry S. Leigh._

TO A COUNTRY COUSIN

CRUEL Cousin Kate, you ask me For a lyric or a lay. How tyrannical to task me, Cousin Kate, in such a way. Pardon me, I pray, and pity— (Oh, do anything but frown!) For I can’t be wise or witty In an album out of town

No, my Pegasus will canter Only here on civic stones; In the country I instanter Come to grief and broken bones. Be it mine to sing the city, Where I seek my mild renown;— But I can’t be wise or witty In an album out of town.

Small my power and small my will is Rural sympathies to win; Ludgate my sublimest hill is, And my fields are Lincoln’s Inn All the Muses in committee, Pouring inspiration down, Cannot make me wise or witty In an album out of town.

London life in many phases I describe for Cockney friends; Lead me out among the daisies And my versifying ends. I can favor with a ditty Jones, and Robinson, and Brown; But I can’t be wise or witty In an album out of town.

Cousin, hear my supplication; Give me something else to do. Is there aught in all creation I would not attempt for you? Ask my life, my cruel Kitty: Bid me hang, or bid me drown; But I can’t be wise or witty In an album out of town. _Henry S. Leigh._

THE FAMILY FOOL

OH! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon, If you listen to popular rumour; From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright, And he bubbles with wit and good humour! He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse; Yet though people forgive his transgression, There are one or two rules that all Family Fools Must observe if they love their profession. There are one or two rules, Half-a-dozen, maybe, That all family fools, Of whatever degree, Must observe, if they love their profession.

If you wish to succeed as a jester, you’ll need To consider each person’s auricular: What is all right for B. would quite scandalize C. (For C. is so very particular); And D. may be dull, and E.’s very thick skull Is as empty of brains as a ladle; While F. is F sharp, and will cry with a carp, That he’s known your best joke from his cradle! When your humour they flout, You can’t let yourself go; And it _does_ put you out When a person says, “Oh! I have known that old joke from my cradle!”

If your master is surly, from getting up early (And tempers are short in the morning), An inopportune joke is enough to provoke Him to give you, at once, a month’s warning. Then if you refrain, he is at you again, For he likes to get value for money, He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare, “If you know that you’re paid to be funny?” It adds to the tasks Of a merryman’s place, When your principal asks, With a scowl on his face, If you know that you’re paid to be funny?

Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.— Oh! beware of his anger provoking Better not pull his hair—don’t stick pins in his chair; He won’t understand practical joking. If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack, You may get a bland smile from these sages; But should it, by chance, be imported from France, Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages! It’s a general rule, Though your zeal it may quench If the Family Fool Makes a joke that’s too French, Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!

Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack, And your senses with toothache you’re losing, Don’t be mopy and flat—they don’t fine you for that If you’re properly quaint and amusing! Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day And took with her your trifle of money; Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re exceedingly kind— They don’t blame you—as long as you’re funny! It’s a comfort to feel If your partner should flit, Though you suffer a deal, _They_ don’t mind it a bit— They don’t blame you—so long as you’re funny! _W. S. Gilbert._

AN INTERLUDE

IN the greenest growth of the May-time, I rode where the woods were wet, Between the dawn and the day-time; The spring was glad that we met.

There was something the season wanted, Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet; The breath at your lips that panted, The pulse of the grass at your feet.

You came, and the sun came after, And the green grew golden above; And the May-flowers lightened with laughter, And the meadow-sweet shook with love.

Your feet in the full-grown grasses Moved soft as a weak wind blows; You passed me as April passes, With face made out of a rose.

By the stream where the stems were slender, Your light foot paused at the sedge; It might be to watch the tender Light leaves in the spring-time hedge.

On boughs that the sweet month blanches With flowery frost of May; It might be a bird in the branches, It might be a thorn in the way.

I waited to watch you linger, With foot drawn back from the dew, Till a sunbeam straight like a finger Struck sharp through the leaves at you.

And a bird overhead sang “Follow,” And a bird to the right sang “Here”; And the arch of the leaves was hollow, And the meaning of May was clear.

I saw where the sun’s hand pointed, I knew what the bird’s note said; By the dawn and the dew fall anointed, You were queen by the gold on your head.

As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember Recalls a regret of the sun, I remember, forget, and remember What love saw done and undone.

I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met; You hoped we were both broken-hearted, And knew we should both forget.

And May with her world in flower Seemed still to murmur and smile As you murmured and smiled for an hour; I saw you twice at the stile.

A hand like a white-wood blossom You lifted and waved, and passed, With head hung down to the bosom, And pale, as it seemed, to the last.

And the best and the worst of this is, That neither is most to blame, If you’ve forgotten my kisses, And I’ve forgotten your name. _Algernon Charles Swinburne._

A MATCH

IF love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune.

If you were Life, my darling, And I, your love, were Death, We’d shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the wreath With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were Life, my darling, And I, your love, were Death.

If you were thrall to Sorrow, And I were page to Joy, We’d play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons, And tears of night and morrow, And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to Sorrow, And I were page to Joy.

If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May, We’d throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure And I were king of pain, We’d hunt down Love together, Pluck out his flying feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain. _Algernon Charles Swinburne._

CAPRICE

I

SHE hung the cage at the window: “If he goes by,” she said, “He will hear my robin singing, And when he lifts his head, I shall be sitting here to sew, And he will bow to me, I know.”

The robin sang a love-sweet song, The young man raised his head; The maiden turned away and blushed: “I am a fool!” she said, And went on ’broidering in silk A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.

II

The young man loitered slowly By the house three times that day; She took her bird from the window: “He need not look this way.” She sat at her piano long, And sighed, and played a death-sad song.

But when the day was done, she said, “I wish that he would come! Remember, Mary, if he calls To-night—I’m not at home.” So when he rang, she went—the elf!— She went and let him in herself.

III

They sang full long together Their songs love-sweet, death-sad; The robin woke from his slumber, And rang out, clear and glad. “Now go!” she coldly said; “’tis late”; And followed him—to latch the gate.

He took the rosebud from her hair, While, “You shall not!” she said; He closed her hand within his own, And, while her tongue forbade, Her will was darkened in the eclipse Of blinding love upon his lips. _William Dean Howells._

THE MINUET

GRANDMA told me all about it, Told me so I couldn’t doubt it, How she danced—my Grandma danced!— Long ago. How she held her pretty head, How her dainty skirt she spread, Turning out her little toes; How she slowly leaned and rose— Long ago.

Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny; Dimpled cheeks, too—ah, how funny! Really quite a pretty girl, Long ago. Bless her! why she wears a cap, Grandma does, and takes a nap Every single day; and yet Grandma danced the minuet Long ago.

Now she sits there rocking, rocking, Always knitting Grandpa’s stocking— (Every girl was taught to knit Long ago), Yet her figure is so neat, And her ways so staid and sweet, I can almost see her now Bending to her partner’s bow, Long ago.

Grandma says our modern jumping, Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, Would have shocked the gentle folk Long ago. No—they moved with stately grace, Everything in proper place, Gliding slowly forward, then Slowly curtseying back again. Long ago.

Modern ways are quite alarming, Grandma says; but boys were charming— Girls and boys I mean, of course— Long ago. Bravely modest, grandly shy,— She would like to have us try Just to feel like those who met In the graceful minuet Long ago.

With the minuet in fashion, Who could fly into a passion? All would wear the calm they wore Long ago. In time to come, if I, perchance, Should tell my grandchild of our dance, I should really like to say, “We did it, dear, in some such way, Long ago.” _Mary Mapes Dodge._

A STREET SKETCH

UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat— Her hazel eyes are passing sweet— There stands and waits in dire distress: The muddy road is pitiless, And ’busses thunder down the street!

A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat; Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet Peep out, beneath her kilted dress, Upon the Kerb.

She’ll first advance, and then retreat, Half-frightened by a hansom fleet. She looks around, I must confess, With marvellous coquettishness!— Then droops her eyes and looks discreet, Upon the Kerb! _J. Ashby-Sterry._

SAINT MAY

A CITY LYRIC

ST. ALOYS THE GREAT is both mouldy and grim, Not knowing the road there, you’ll long have to search To find your way into this old city church; Yet on fine Sunday mornings I frequently stray There to see a new saint, whom I’ve christened St. May.

Of saints I’ve seen plenty in churches before— In Florence or Venice they’re there by the score; Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget— By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret: They none can compare, though they’re well in their way, In maidenly grace with my dainty St. May.

She’s young for a saint, for she’s scarcely eighteen, And ne’er could wear peas in those dainty _bottines_; Her locks are not shaven, and ’twould be a sin To wear a hair-shirt next that delicate skin; Save diagonal stripes on a dress of light gray, Stripes ne’er have been borne by bewitching St. May.

Then she’s almost too plump and too round for a saint, With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint; She has no mediæval nor mortified mien, No wimple of yellow, nor background of green, A nimbus of hair throws its sunshiny ray Of glory around the fair face of St. May.

What surquayne or partlet could look better than My saint’s curly jacket of black Astracan? What coif than her bonnet—a triumph of skill— Or alb than her petticoat edged with a frill? So sober, yet smiling—so grave, yet so gay, Oh, where is a saint like my charming St. May? _J. Ashby-Sterry._

PET’S PUNISHMENT

OH, if my love offended me, And we had words together, To show her I would master be, I’d whip her with a feather!

If then she, like a naughty girl, Would tyranny declare it, I’d give my pet a cross of pearl, And make her always bear it.

If still she tried to sulk and sigh, And threw away my posies, I’d catch my darling on the sly, And smother her with roses!

But should she clench her dimpled fists, Or contradict her betters, I’d manacle her tiny wrists With dainty golden fetters.

And if she dared her lips to pout— Like many pert young misses— I’d wind my arm her waist about, And punish her—with kisses! _J. Ashby-Sterry._

HER LETTER

I’M sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even _you_ would admire— It cost a cool thousand in France; I’m be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a queue: In short, sir, “the belle of the season” Is wasting an hour on you.