Part 9

A dozen engagements I’ve broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits—on the stairs—for me yet. They say he’ll be rich—when he grows up— And then he adores me indeed. And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read.

“And how do I like my position?” “And what do I think of New York?” “And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?” “And isn’t it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?” “And isn’t it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?”

Well, yes—if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand— If you saw poor dear mania contriving To look supernaturally grand— If you saw papa’s picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that— You’d never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier— In the bustle and glitter befitting The “finest _soirée_ of the year”— In the mists of a _gaze de Chambéry_, And the hum of the smallest of talk— Somehow, Joe, I thought of the “Ferry,” And the dance that we had on “The Fork”;

Of Harrison’s barn, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft lustre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle; Of the dress of my queer _vis-a-vis_, And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride—that to me was the rarest; Of—the something you said at the gate. Ah, Joe, then I wasn’t an heiress To “the best-paying lead in the State!”

Well, well, it’s all past; yet it’s funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee’s daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I’m writing! (Mama says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting, I’m spooning on Joseph—heigh-ho! And I’m to be “finished” by travel— Whatever’s the meaning of that— Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night—here’s the end of my paper; Good-night—if the longitude please— For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun’s climbing over the trees. But know, if you haven’t got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart’s somewhere there in the ditches, And you’ve struck it—on Poverty Flat. _Francis Bret Harte._

AVICE

THOUGH the voice of modern schools Has demurred, By the dreamy Asian creed ’Tis averred, That the souls of men, released From their bodies when deceased, Sometimes enter in a beast,— Or a bird.

I have watched you long, Avice,— Watched you so, I have found your secret out; And I know That the restless ribboned things, Where your slope of shoulder springs, Are but undeveloped wings, That will grow.

When you enter in a room, It is stirred With the wayward, flashing flight Of a bird; And you speak—and bring with your Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, And the wind-breath and the dew, At a word.

When you called to me my name, Then again When I heard your single cry In the lane, All the sound was as the “sweet” Which the birds to birds repeat In their thank-song to the heat After rain.

When you sang the Schwalbenlied,— ’Twas absurd,— But it seemed no human note That I heard; For your strain had all the trills, All the little shakes and stills, Of the over-song that rills From a bird.

You have just their eager, quick Airs _de tête_, All their flush and fever-heat When elate; Every bird-like nod and beck, And a bird’s own curve of neck When she gives a little peck To her mate.

When you left me, only now, In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, I was spurred Just to catch you, O my sweet, By the bodice trim and neat,— Just to feel your heart-a-beat, Like a bird.

Yet alas! Love’s light you deign But to wear As the dew upon your plumes, And you care Not a whit for rest or hush; But the leaves, the lyric gush, And the wing-power, and the rush Of the air.

So I dare not woo you, sweet, For a day, Lest I lose you in a flash, As I may; Did I tell you tender things, You would shake your sudden wings;— You would start from him who sings, And away. _Austin Dobson._

A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS

WHEN Spring comes laughing By vale and hill, By wind-flower walking And daffodil,— Sing stars of morning, Sing morning skies, Sing blue of Speedwell,— And my Love’s eyes.

When comes the Summer, Full-leaved and strong, And gay birds gossip The orchard long,— Sing hid, sweet honey That no bee sips; Sing red, red roses,— And my love’s lips.

When Autumn scatters The leaves again, And piled sheaves bury The broad-wheeled wain,— Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice; Sing rounds of reapers,— And my Love’s voice.

But when comes winter With hail and storm, And red fire roaring And ingle warm,— Sing first sad going Of friends that part; Then sing glad meeting,— And my Love’s heart. _Austin Dobson._

IN TOWN

“_The blue fly sung in the pane._”—TENNYSON.

TOILING in Town now is “horrid” (There is that woman again!)— June in the zenith is torrid, Thought gets dry in the brain.

There is that woman again: “Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!” Thought gets dry in the brain; Ink gets dry in the bottle.

“Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!” Oh for the green of a lane!— Ink gets dry in the bottle; “Buzz” goes a fly in the pane!

Oh for the green of a lane, Where one might lie and be lazy! “Buzz” goes a fly in the pane; Bluebottles drive me crazy!

Where one might lie and be lazy, Careless of Town and all in it!— Bluebottles drive me crazy: I shall go mad in a minute!

Careless of Town and all in it, With some one to soothe and to still you, I shall go mad in a minute, Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!

With some one to soothe and to still you, As only one’s feminine kin do,— Bluebottle, then I shall kill you: There now! I’ve broken the window!

As only one’s feminine kin do,— Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!— There now! I’ve broken the window! Bluebottle’s off and away!

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May, To dash one with _eau de Cologne_;— Bluebottle’s off and away, And why should I stay here alone?

To dash one with _eau de Cologne_, All over one’s eminent forehead; And why should I stay here alone? Toiling in Town now is “horrid.” _Austin Dobson._

WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE

WHEN I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high;— How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky, When I saw you last, Rose!

Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh;— How fast the time goes!

And a life—how it grows! You were scarcely so shy, When I saw you last, Rose!

In your bosom it shows There’s a guest on the sly; How fast the time goes!

Is it Cupid? Who knows! Yet you used not to sigh, When I saw you last, Rose;— How fast the time goes! _Austin Dobson._

TO “LYDIA LANGUISH”

“_Il me faut des emotions._”—BLANCHE AMORY

YOU ask me, Lydia, “whether I, If you refuse my suit, shall die,” (Now pray don’t let this hurt you!) Although the time be out of joint, I should not think a bodkin’s point The sole resource of virtue; Nor shall I, though your mood endure, Attempt a final Water-cure Except against my wishes; For I respectfully decline To dignify the Serpentine, And make _hors-d’œuvres_ for fishes; But if you ask me whether I Composedly can go, Without a look, without a sigh, Why, then I answer—No.

“You are assured,” you sadly say (If in this most considerate way To treat my suit your will is), That I shall “quickly find as fair Some new Neæra’s tangled hair— Some easier Amaryllis.” I cannot promise to be cold If smiles are kind as yours of old On lips of later beauties; Nor can I, if I would, forget The homage that is Nature’s debt, While man has social duties; But if you ask shall I prefer To you I honour so, A somewhat visionary Her, I answer truly—No.

You fear, you frankly add, “to find In me too late the altered mind That altering Time estranges.” To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree) Must have septennial changes; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole To try and find out whether We could not, by some means, arrange This not-to-be-avoided change So as to change together: But, had you asked me to allow That you could ever grow Less amiable than you are now,— Emphatically—No.

But—to be serious—if you care To know how I shall really bear This much-discussed rejection, I answer you. As feeling men Behave, in best romances, when You outrage their affection;— With that gesticulatory woe, By which, as melodramas show, Despair is indicated; Enforced by all the liquid grief Which hugest pocket-handkerchief Has ever simulated; And when, arrived so far, you say In tragic accents “Go,” Then, Lydia, then ... I still shall stay, And firmly answer—No. _Austin Dobson._

THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR

IT stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves: It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, But now ’tis a ruin,—that old Sedan chair!

It is battered and tattered,—it little avails That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails; For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square, Like a canvas by Wilkie,—that old Sedan chair!

See,—here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes For the poles of the bearers—when once there were poles; It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair, As the birds have discovered,—that old Sedan chair!

“Where’s Troy?” says the poet! Look,—under the seat, Is a nest with four eggs,—’tis the favored retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!

And yet—can’t you fancy a face in the frame Of the window,—some high-headed damsel or dame, Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair, While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?

Can’t you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted ’twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague; Stout fellows!—but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger’s “Grand Masquerade”; For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,— Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!) Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!

“Heu! _quantum mutata_,” I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it—“With care,”— To a Fine-Art Museum—that old Sedan chair! _Austin Dobson._

“LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE”

POOR Rose! I lift you from the street,— Far better I should own you Than you should lie for random feet Where careless hands have thrown you.

Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn! Did heartless Mayfair use you, Then cast you forth to lie forlorn, For chariot-wheels to bruise you?

I saw you last in Edith’s hair, Rose, you would scarce discover That I she passed upon the stair Was Edith’s favoured lover.

A month—“a little month”—ago— O theme for moral writer!— ’Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, She might have been politer;

But let that pass. She gave you then— Behind the oleander— To one, perhaps, of all the men— Who best could understand her,—

Cyril, that, duly flattered, took, As only Cyril’s able, With just the same Arcadian look He used, last night, for Mabel;

Then, having waltzed till every star Had paled away in morning, Lit up his cynical cigar, And tossed you downward, scorning.

Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,— She made my heart strings quiver; And yet—You sha’n’t lie in the street; I’ll drop you in the river. _Austin Dobson._

NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE

O FOR a lodge in a garden of cucumbers! O for an iceberg or two at control! O for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers! O for a pleasure-trip up to the pole!

O for a little one-story thermometer, With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row! O for a big double-barreled hygrometer, To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!

O that this cold world were twenty times colder! (That’s irony red-hot, it seemeth to me); O for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder! O what a comfort an ague would be!

O for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven, Scooped in the rock under cataract vast! O for a winter of discontent even! O for wet blankets judiciously cast!

O for a soda-fount spouting up boldly From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky! O for proud maiden to look on me coldly, Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye!

Then O for a draught from a cup of cold pizen, And O for a resting-place in the cold grave! With a bath in the Styx where the thick shadow lies on And deepens the chill of its dark-running wave. _Rossiter Johnson._

BRIGHTON PIER

WHICH is the merriest place to love, Whether it be for a day or year; Where can we slip, like a cast-off glove, The care that hovers our world above? Come and be taught upon Brighton Pier!

Wandering waves on the shingle dash, The sky’s too blue for a thoughtless tear; Danger is nothing but pessimist trash, And the morning’s made for a healthy splash: Come for a header from Brighton Pier!

Filled with life, see the children race, Motherly hearts they quake with fear, Meeting the breezes face to face! Whether we’re steady or “go the pace,” Let us be young upon Brighton Pier!

Here she comes with her love-lit eyes, Hearts will throb when a darling’s near; Would it be well to avoid her—wise? Every fool in the wide world tries, But love must win upon Brighton Pier!

Lazily lost in a dream we sit— Maidens’ eyes are a waveless mere— There’s many a vow when seagulls flit, And many a sigh when lamps are lit, And many a kiss upon Brighton Pier.

Dear old friends of the days long fled, Why did you vanish and leave me here? Girls are marrying, boys are wed, Youth is living, but I seem dead, Kicking my heels upon Brighton Pier! _Clement Scott._

A CONTRADICTION

“_Varium et mutabile semper Fœmina!_”—VIRGIL

THEY say she’s like an April day, All sun and shower, grave and gay, Just half in love, and half in play, Like other misses. Go to! They tell a pack of lies; For I have heard her heart-drawn sighs, And I have seen her inmost eyes, And felt her kisses!

They think her laugh is over-bold, And hint her smiles are bought for gold; Dull heretics have thought her cold, As is the fashion. Ah me! when we together stole Across the weald to leafy Knole, ’Twas there she showed to me her soul And all her passion!

They vow her life is tossed about From ball to picnic, play to rout; A careless butterfly, no doubt, That scandal crushes. What could we answer, if ’twere said That Time and Fate two lovers led To lily-streams at Maidenhead, Among the rushes?

Her reputation shivered most Last night at supper, when our host Made her of careless lips the toast And reigning goddess. But I, who know my love, dare say She thought of home, and tried to pray Before her handmaid slipped away Her satin bodice.

Your silly worldings all forget Her depth of hidden life, and bet They’ve never met her equal yet In fact or fiction. But I, who love in secret, sit Unweaving webs that Fate has knit To bind me to so exquisite A contradiction. _Clement Scott._

RONDEL

KISS me, sweetheart; the Spring is here And Love is Lord of you and me. The blue-bells beckon each passing bee; The wild wood laughs to the flowered year: There is no bird in brake or brere, But to his little mate sings he, “Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here, And Love is Lord of you and me!”

The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear, The missel-thrush upon the tree Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free; And I go singing to my dear, “Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here, And Love is Lord of you and me.” _John Payne._

WHITE, PILLARED NECK

I

WHITE, pillared neck; a brow to make men quake; A woman’s perfect form; Like some cool marble, should that wake, Breathe, and be warm.

II

A shape, a mind, a heart Of womanhood the whole; Her breath, her smile, her touch, her art, All—save her soul. _Richard Watson Gilder._

JANET

I

I REMEMBER That November When the new November child On this old world woke and smiled.

II

Here’s a woman, Sweet and human, And they call her Janet, now,— I can’t make it out, I vow

III

It only seems One night of dreams; Years they say; how _do_ they plan it? What’s become of Little Janet?

IV

Never mind; She’s good; she’s kind; Age can never bend or win her; There’s a heart of youth within her. _Richard Watson Gilder._

FOR A FAN

EACH of us answers to a call; Master or mistress have we all. I belong to lovely Anne; Dost thou wish _thou_ wert a fan? Thus to be treasured, thus to be prest, Pleasuring thus, and thus caressed? _Richard Watson Gilder._

BALLADE OF SUMMER

WHEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap, Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, When midnight dances are murdering sleep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year And far from Fleet Street, far from here, The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, And moonlit nights they are soft and clear, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When clamour that doves in the lindens keep Mingles with musical plash of the weir, Where drowned green tresses of crowsfeet creep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And better a crust and a beaker of beer, With rose hung hedges on either hand, Than a palace in town and a prince’s cheer, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When big trout late in the twilight leap, When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer, While kine knee-deep in the water stand, On a highland loch, on a Lowland mere, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

ENVOY

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And the summer runs out, like grains of sand, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! _Andrew Lang._

COLINETTE

FRANCE your country, as we know; Room enough for guessing yet, What lips now or long ago, Kissed and named you—Colinette. In what fields from sea to sea, By what stream your home was set, Loire or Seine was glad of thee, Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?

Did you stand with “maidens ten, Fairer maids were never seen,” When the young king and his men Passed among the orchards green? Nay, old ballads have a note Mournful we would fain forget; No such sad old air should float Round your young brows, Colinette.

Say, did Ronsard sing to you. Shepherdess to lull his pain, When the court went wandering through Rose pleasances of Touraine? Ronsard and his famous Rose Long are dust the breezes fret; You, within the garden close, You are blooming, Colinette.

Have I seen you proud and gay, With a patched and perfumed beau, Dancing through the summer day, Misty summer of Watteau? Nay, so sweet a maid as you Never walked a minuet With the splendid courtly crew; Nay, forgive me, Colinette.

Not from Greuze’s canvases Do you cast a glance, a smile; You are not as one of these, Yours is beauty without guile. Round your maiden brows and hair Maidenhood and Childhood met, Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair, New art’s blossom, Colinette. _Andrew Lang._

BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES

(_After Villon_)

NAY, tell me now in what strange air The Roman Flora dwells to-day; Where Archippiada hides, and where Beautiful Thais has passed away? Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, By mere or stream,—around, below? Lovelier she than a woman of clay; Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Where is wise Héloise, that care Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders grey; And where’s the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way— Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay? Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her? No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

ENVOY

Prince, all this week thou need’st not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know. One burden answers, ever and aye, “Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?” _Andrew Lang._