Part 5

The clock struck ten, the carriages drew up before the gate, The ton display their quality by coming rather late. A crowd it was, you may be sure, of opulence and fashion, For Mrs. Browne had for high life what one would call a passion. There were satins, muslin, taffetas and laces, and illusion Like all the rainbows since the flood crushed in one grand confusion, And as her guests the parlor thronged, delighted Mrs. Browne Felt just a notch or two above all rival Mas in town.

O feminine, O masculine embarrassment of riches! For those who wore and those who longed for bifurcated breeches! There was flouncing Miss Barege, and grass-widow, Madame Clack, Miss Creame-Cocaine, the dreamer, whey-faced, of morals slack, Miss Polly Prude, the finical, fastidious and precise, Miss Reverie, a tall bas bleu with sentimental eyes, Miss Twitchell, always twitching, Miss Giggle with her twitter, Miss Dumb-Bell of the wallflower set, a most accomplished sitter, All planets of the Milky Way; as for the herd of beaux, Know one, know all--mustachios, gloves, smirks, bows and faultless clothes.

But for laughing and screaming and ogling and dancing, Coquetting and ogling and sighing and glancing, Madame Mazourka that night made her mark, As a punk that took fire at the flash of each spark, So high in her waltzing, so low in her dress, that She really left gazers very little to guess at. For each time that she bounded or gracefully fell-- For where her grace bounded, sin much more abounded-- Each curve was so plumply and gracefully rounded-- The dullest of eyes could discern the fine swell Of her dress, and much more than is proper to tell.

I’ve a hearty contempt--I hope nobody’s hurt For that pitiful nuisance, a married flirt, Whether it wears a chemise or shirt, For when the green season of myrtles is o’er This wrinkled-faced courtship is rather a bore, And the musk and the paint on an old married lover Don’t smell quite as sweetly as newly mown clover.

O you who are wedded, take care how you walk! For the world is suspicious and people will talk, And spectators may say--no accounting for taste-- No arm but a husband’s should encircle the waist Of a lady that’s married, in the waltz’s mad whirls, And no finger but his should disport with her curls; But back to my story--the sin of digression It’s really becoming my crying transgression, But your feelings will hurry you sometimes away, And genius, kind reader, you know must have play.

You pardon? Well, then, to take up the thread Of my story--the old folks were snoring in bed; In the western horizon the moon kept her course, The talkers were drowsy, the singers were hoarse, When Lulu was strolling the cool walks among While her beau held her ear as she didn’t her tongue. Sweet Venus and Cupid o’er the wide earth held reign And the pennons streamed gay o’er their Castles in Spain.

O Lulu, dear Lulu! magnificent belle-- Whose name is a charm and whose presence a spell, Bright star ever shining in Memory’s stream, You were gowned on that night in the very extreme Of fashion, indeed quite a crinoline belle, You spread yourself so, and you made such a swell, Your dress circle being made after the pattern Of the rings that the telescope shows around Saturn, Not whalebone or cordage, but Carnegie’s best steel, As when you dance with her next time you can feel.

Now, I do not blame Lulu for her fondness for dress It’s a passion some people find hard to repress, And take this excuse, dear reader, I beg; Her grandma had left her a very fine leg- Acy, so having abundance of means, And being quite young--indeed still in her teens-- She dressed herself up in the climax of style, “A miss”--in circumference--“as good as a mile.”

Well, Lulu was chatting away with her beau Of dances and courtships, and quarrels and so, When all of a sudden she made a full stop In her gay tête-a-tête, and screamed at the top Of her voice, till each sleepy-eyed maid in the hall Sprang quick to her feet at the terrible squall, There pale as the Greek Slave of Powers she stood, Her white lips unstained by a vestige of blood, Her arms, like a Pythoness, in agony tossed, As she shrieked in her anguish, “O Lord, I am lost!”

While footsteps fell round her as quick as the clatter Of a cavalcade’s hoofs, each one bawling at her “O Lulu, my darling, pray what is the matter?” “A serpent is biting me under my dress!” “Lord help us!” burst forth in a wail of distress, “It’s coiling around my--It’s big as a rail, And a great bunch of rattles tied on to its tail,” Ne’er toper saw snake from his jag or his jug Like this which clasped Lulu in terrible hug.

There were sobbings and swooning away on the floor, Of disordered lingerie over a score, “Unions,” “Merodes,” and garters galore, Indeed ’twas a contretemps all might deplore! “A snake at a dance!” “How dare poke its face Into such an exceedingly improper place?” So the old snake in Paradise brought us to grief; He skulked behind Eve; Eve behind her fig leaf, And this great world, which it took a whole week to make, Went into bankruptcy, all for one snake.

O Fashion, what follies your votaries make, What frauds to your bosom with rapture you take, ’Twixt the gay masquerade and the sorrowful wake, One tenth is for fashion and nine tenths for mere fake, And maidens adorn their fair forms with a snake; For earrings, for bracelets, for necklace and jewel, Diamonds and rubies for eyes cold and cruel. Sparkling and dazzling at reception and mass, On debutante’s fingers or on widow of grass, O! feminine dragon!--how else depict her, When the girl of my dreams turns boa-constrictor? Why pineth fair woman’s heart for a snake? Man would perish a million times o’er for her sake.

At last one golden youth, more bold than the rest, Walked up, bowed and spoke as he pulled down his vest “Well! crying won’t help it, so pray now be still, They say there’s a way whene’er there’s a will, I will tie up his tail in a sort of a link, And jerk him from under his quarters, I think,” Dread silence fell like a spell on the air, Sobs hardly suppressed, inarticulate prayer, When cautiously groping lest he might mistake, And grab a--suspender instead of the snake, He at last found the dragon and fastened his hold, It was scaly and squirming, and quivering and cold, Like a huge anaconda writhing its fold, And then with a clutch that was steady and bold, He twisted it up in a sort of a loop, And jerked out--at least forty feet of steel hoop!

IN MEMORIAM.

[LIEUTENANT BOYD MERCER, ELEVENTH KENTUCKY INFANTRY, U. S. A., 1861.]

Some souls, unmoved by lust of fame or pelf, Pass their whole lives without a thought of self; No selfish schemes their high ideals smother-- Such was thy soul, my noble-hearted brother. Modest in manner as a gentle maid, As lion bold was duty’s call obeyed, Nor man nor devil made thy soul afraid, To home, to God and Country ever true. Like skylark springing from the morning dew, Thine upward, sunlit flight thou didst pursue. The ocean’s costliest pearls lie ’neath its waves, Blaze richest gems in undiscovered caves, And like the wealth o’er which the ocean rolls God knows the value of his purest souls. Citizen and Christian soldier--why lament A life so truly planned, so nobly spent? Now without taint or mixture of alloy Christ’s soldier marches in eternal joy.

THE SORROWS OF HINDA AND KLEINFELTER.

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”--_Shakespeare._

I.

Maidens, say, heard ye the sorrowful story Of a turreted castle all mossy and hoary, That stood on the banks of the dark-flowing Rhine, Where the tall hills are clad with the grape-laden vine, Where the strains of the flute and the plaintive guitar Are echoed each night ’neath the glow of the star, Where the days glide as smooth as the waves of the river, And swift as the shaft from an Indian quiver? Oh, Heaven has showered with a bountiful hand All, all that is lovely and gorgeous and grand On the Rhine’s noble valley, that beautiful land, Yet alas!--for the tale I am going to tell Is as sad as the chime of a funeral bell, And oft as they pause at their leisure to listen, The tear on the pale cheek of beauty will glisten. Weeping they will turn away, Sighing have I heard them say, “Of all the woes that blight us from above, The saddest is the pang of unrequited love.”

II.

In a castle gloomy and old Once there dwelt a Baron bold, Rich in acres and flocks and gold; Sooth but he was a gallant knight, Fond of his lager and fond of fight. He was ever in the front Of the battle or the hunt, And of each struggle he bore the brunt! None like him could wield the spear, Or run down the flying deer, Or drain the flagons of lager beer.

III.

The Baron had a daughter Adored by all the swains: Oh, she had wealth and beauty And very little brains Her breath was sweet As the morning dew, Her tresses were black, And her eyes were blue. Her foot was cased In a delicate shoe, If I remember, a one and a half, Made of the finest Parisian calf, So instead of walking, Of course she flew, As some of my female Acquaintances do. Her food was turnips And cabbage and steak And milk and peaches And pudding and cake, Weinies and kraut and the essence of bees, That is to say, honey and Limberger cheese, Horseradish to make an elephant sneeze. So by high feeding And very little reading, Her waist did gradually acquire considerable diameter, And her apron-strings were full as long as Tennyson’s hexameter.

IV.

Beneath the castle window Each night were heard the strains Of a poor love-smitten noble, Who lived away out on the plains, And walked ten weary miles each night, To woo the Baron’s daughter, Who lived in the gloomy castle That stood by the Rhine’s blue water. Oh, Kleinfelter burned with a desperate passion, And he fixed it in music somewhat to this fashion: “Oh transcendental Hinda, Look from thy latticed window, As here I sadly linger And with a trembling finger I thrum the strings Of my sad guitar, Or knock the ashes From my fragrant cigar Fairest of Heaven’s handiwork, Sweetest of nature’s candy-work, Here I pledge upon thine altar, Love that knows not how to falter. Grant, oh, grant some sweet return, Nor my deep devotion spurn; Let me have thy gentle heart or Even a buckle of your garter!”

V.

Now Kleinfelter’s singing Was undoubtedly splendid, And its musical ringing Could not easily be mended It was soft and sweet and then it was loud As a singing saint’s on a shining cloud; Clear as the lark’s own morning call, With a silvery chime like a waterfall. So he had scarcely uttered a note, When Hinda’s heart rose up in her throat, Her breast felt a pang and her head felt a dizziness, Oh, Kleinfelter’s serenade finished the business!

VI.

I know a maiden, Her eyes are black As the flying cloud Of the tempest’s rack, And the radiant glow Of their glorious fire Would quell and tame A lion’s ire. Sometimes they brighten And lighten in gladness, Sometimes their dark depths Are shadowed with sadness, But pensive or mirthful, A soul flashes through, That will silently charm you And win and subdue. Often have I heard her play On the guitar some roundelay, And as her white hands swept the strings, Melody unsealed its springs, And her sweet voice, though low and soft, Rose like a seraph’s hymn aloft, Rising and sinking in gentle swells; Like a murmuring brook with its liquid bells, Till the vanquished soul was borne along On the rushing tide of resistless song.

VII.

But I am digressing-- I was going to say, That just as Kleinfelter Got in good way, The Baron, hearing Kleinfelter’s song, Thought he was piling it on rather strong, So taking along a burly old vassal, He quickly sneaked up to the top of his castle He lay down on his stomach And stuck his head over, And there was Miss Hinda And below was her lover. He gritted his teeth and he held his breath, And he inly vowed Kleinfelter’s death. So jumping up and wheeling about, He picked up a barrel of sour kraut, And frantic with rage he hurled it over, Plump on the head of the wretched lover. Of course it ended Kleinfelter’s strains, For it mashed his skull and scattered his brains, And knocked the musician _out of time_ Into Eternity--horrible crime! So ended Kleinfelter, and so ends my rhyme.

DR. JOHN A. BROADDUS.

Modest, firm, bold, and sage as Socrates, Two Johns in one, the Harbinger and Seer, He stood a High Priest by the holy Ark, Aspiring as the upward-soaring eagle Quitting the sluggish vapors of the dark, To drink in heavenward flight the morning breeze, Clear dews, and golden sunshine of the dawn, And moist from fountains fresh and salted seas.

He preached with reason lucid as the light Which flashed o’er chaos at Creation’s birth, When Eden threw its splendor o’er the night And the Divine Word said, “Let there be light!” Chasing foul phantoms from the infant earth; Strange was the power of that pathetic voice Whose sympathy made aching hearts rejoice. The mellow winding of the shepherd’s pipe Seemed from the fruitful Mount of Olives borne To ears of gentle women and strong men.

It shamed and hushed the scoffers’ ribald scorn, It charmed the city’s lucre-loving throng, And melted all with Calvary’s lofty song. No painted web of rhetoric he wove; His speech was all sincerity and love, But sharp and pointed as a surgeon’s lance. Tender his touch, and searching his quick glance; A living faith to every work he brought, And lived the simple doctrines that he taught. The Man of Sorrows ever was his theme, Who taught by Galilee and Jordan’s stream; So in the Temple Jewish rabbis heard The wondrous Christ-Child speak his Father’s word.

The admiring world oft tempted him in vain, And offered greater guerdon than his chair, In posts of honor and in golden gain, To him gay bubbles floating on the air. Far up the Mount he heard the warning cry-- “Excelsior!” the watchword of the sky, The solemn mandate of Eternity.

After long life of toil he sighed for rest, Like homing-dove returning to her nest Crooning her “La Paloma” in her flight-- Duty his pole-star guiding him aright; He leaned his faint head on his Master’s breast, And his great soul was happy with the Blessed.

TO LEONORA.

“One fatal remembrance--one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o’er our joys and our woes.”

--_Moore._

The troubled spell is o’er, The wild delirious dream of bliss is broke; A spirit whispered to me as I woke, “No more--oh sleep no more, For love has died upon a dart whose sting Sped on a feather plucked from his own wing.”

Oh, bright divinity, Bold and unfettered as the eagle’s wing, Oh soul of noblest impulses, the spring, And chainless as the sea, Why didst thou lend my sky thy glorious light Only to quench it in a blacker night!

Oh, I have loved to bow Before thy shrine and burn rich incense there, Immaculate spirit of the upper air, Nor rose sincerer vow Nor sweeter wreaths in Dian’s temples hung, When on the Paphian myrtles Sappho sung.

Thine is a magic power, A power the sternest hearts to tame and quell Thine own to mortal arts invincible, And glorious is thy dower-- Love’s fire, ambition’s struggle, pity’s tear, Religion’s hope, and all--save woman’s fear.

Thine is that fearful spell, In which the Orient poppy gardens steep The passer’s senses in luxurious sleep, While dreaming all is well, Nor knows he that the flower’s delicious breath Is the lethargic atmosphere of death.

Too late--alas! too late! My heart once fresh with morning dews of youth, Dreaming that all the beautiful was truth, Is seared and desolate; Love’s star is shrouded in its last eclipse And its fair fruit is ashes on my lips.

With bitter grief we parted, On thy dear lips I breathed a last adieu To peace, to hope, to sweet repose, and you, And left thee--broken-hearted: And every star in heaven was wrapped in gloom, And earth itself became a living tomb.

And like a mourner’s wail Now piercing shrill, now smothered and half hushed, Convulsive tears and sobs all madly gushed-- And gushed without avail; For our fond bosoms bore one stricken heart Forever wounded by a fatal dart.

The night wind’s plaintive moan Sighed through the pendant branches of the trees, Whose leaf-harp’s sweet vibrations filled the breeze, And the far distant tone Of the blue waters of La Belle Riviere Stole in Æolian murmurs on my ear.

The bosom’s quivering throes, The shuddering frame, the anguish of the heart Writhing with Love’s immedicable dart; The unutterable woes Of those whom destiny has doomed to feel The agony they never can reveal--

All these were ours--and when The dying night-winds ceased a while to wake Leaf in the wood or ripple on the lake A murmur rose of pain, Doleful and bitter as the passing cry Of a lost spirit in its agony.

Mine is the agony To perish where Elysian apples grow, To parch with thirst where Eden’s waters flow To pine--to droop--to die, Without one hope to ease my bosom’s pain, To know _I love, am loved, and all in vain_!

One more fond parting word, While all my frame with agony is shaken, And my torn heart of every hope forsaken, To its far depths is stirred. A word will haunt me like a funeral knell, God bless thee, dear Leonora--and farewell!

AT HIS POST.

IN MEMORIAM.

[Midshipman Goldthwaite, Hopkinsville, Ky., who perished with eleven companions in the battleship Georgia, July 15, 1907.]

Call up, Recording Angel, The roster of the dead; Who sleep in vaults or village graves, Or in the ocean bed. Call all alike--the wealthy, The humble or the great; Tell me how died they, Angel? How met their various fate?

The Angel called out Marathon, And Bunker Hill sublime, Whose glory shall outlast The temples of old time. Myriads of true and loyal men In many a mighty host, All perished, said the Angel, Faithfully at their post.

Some to fair science martyrs; Some to religion’s call; To truth and duty witnesses, In faith they perished, all; And bright, celestial splendor Shone all around each ghost: “I died,” proclaimed each pallid shade, “Faithfully at my post.”

Oh, not in vain you perished, Goldthwaite, when fate’s sad blow Struck down the flower of chivalry And laid its promise low; Still, with true joy, salute we Your shade, oh, knightly ghost, And hail thee, loyal hero, Who perished at his post.

Thy virtues high in heaven As stars forever burn; Long, long shall love bedew with tears Thy consecrated urn; In life’s young morn you perished-- Perished, but not in vain; Your deathless, bright example Shall cheer young hearts again.

The trumpet voice inspiring sounds Along the ocean shore; “Fear God and His commands obey”-- Angels can do no more; From the ill-fated Georgia’s deck There booms a solemn roar; With strength renewed at the sad sound The country’s eagles soar.

RECONCILIATION.

[Carriers’ Address, written for the Nashville, Tenn., _Press and Times_, December 25, 1865.]

The days have dropped, like withered leaves, From the dead cypress of the year, And Time, who neither joys nor grieves, Nor spares, nor pities, nor reprieves, Has bound the months, twelve ripened sheaves, Round his completed sphere.

Dread Reaper of the centuries, The red strokes of whose sickle blade Clashed oft and harshly on the breeze, While in long swathes our dead were laid, And measured out with every blow That dark Olympiad of woe; Here, where thy dreadful bugles rang, With cannon’s roar and saber’s clang, And answering hell in chorus sang, Bidding the harvesters of Death Cut wider still their slippery path. Withhold thy fatal hand, And let thy crescent sickle shine The harvest moon of peace divine, And to full orb expand; For blood enough of kindred slain Has poured in streams of purple rain And soaked the thirsty sand To quench each living coal of hate, Assuage the fury of the State And reconcile the land.

O, North! O, South! whose children claim From heroic sires a common fame More lustrous than the melted gem Of Cleopatra’s diadem, Drunk up one night for Antony In bacchanalian revelry, Will you a richer pearl betray, Whose incommunicable splendor None but a slave would cast away, None but a craven would surrender? Tells not each winged wind some story Of Revolutionary glory, Worthy of that immortal theme Which once inspired The Scian’s dream By blue Ægean’s tide; How Hayne, to his dear country given, Stepped from the scaffold up to heaven, Laureled and deified; How Lawrence dared the ocean strife-- Breathing with pale and quivering lip His death cry, “Don’t give up the ship!”-- Then perished in his pride, And Warren, in the morn of life, In front of battle died.

O, Christ, whose Orient Star of Love, Illumed the primal Christmas morning, What cloud has spread its veil above, That we no more behold it burning? Shall we, despite the prayers and tears, Poured out for near two thousand years, In never-ending intercession For fallen humanity’s transgression, Shall we pluck from the temple’s shelves And trample under foot the Bible, Apostates base pronounce ourselves And Christianity a libel?