Part 21

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noon-shine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moon-shine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor's appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude's breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses-- Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die. Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the blood-shed of things; Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE ARAB.

On, on, my brown Arab, away, away! Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day, And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair, To tread with those echoless, unshod feet Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat, Where no palm-tree proffers a kindly shade, And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade; And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough, O, it goes to my heart--but away, friend, off!

And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand, As thou standest now, on thy native strand, With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair, And thy nostril upturned to the odorous air, Would not woo thee to pause, till his skill might trace At leisure the lines of that eager face; The collarless neck and the coal-black paws And the bit grasped tight in the massive jaws; The delicate curve of the legs, that seem Too slight for their burden--and, O, the gleam Of that eye, so sombre and yet so gay! Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away!

Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay; Since I crave neither _Echo_ nor _Fun_ to-day. For thy _hand_ is not Echoless--there they are, _Fun_, _Glowworm_, and _Echo_, and _Evening Star_, And thou hintest withal that thou fain wouldst shine, As I read them, these bulgy old boots of mine. But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eatest eel-pie, Thou evermore hast at least one black eye; There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy hues Are due not to nature, but handling shoes; And the bit in thy mouth, I regret to see, Is a bit of tobacco-pipe--Flee, child, flee!

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

THE MODERN HIAWATHA.

He killed the noble Mudjokivis. Of the skin he made him mittens, Made them with the fur side inside, Made them with the skin side outside. He, to get the warm side inside, Put the inside skin side outside; He, to get the cold side outside, Put the warm side fur side inside. That's why he put the fur side inside, Why he put the skin side outside, Why he turned them inside outside.

ANONYMOUS.

POEMS

RECEIVED IN RESPONSE TO AN ADVERTISED CALL FOR A NATIONAL ANTHEM.

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY H. W. L----, OF CAMBRIDGE.

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens,-- Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen.

Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar manner: Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled banner.

Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of this anthem by the committee: in the first place, it is not an anthem at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an old Sclavonic war-song of the primeval ages.

Next we quote from a

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY THE HON. EDWARD E----, OF BOSTON.

Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head, Ere she a stadium had well advanced On the great path that to her greatness led; Her temple's propylon, was shatter-ed; Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington, Her incubus was from her bosom hurled; And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, She took the oil with which her hair was curled To grease the "hub" round which revolves the world.

This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.

We now come to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY JOHN GREENLEAF W----.

My native land, thy Puritanic stock Still finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock; And all thy sons unite in one grand wish,-- To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.

Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true, Told our New England what her sons should do; And, should they swerve from loyalty and right, Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable for use in that small margin of the world situated outside of New England. Hence the above must be rejected.

Here we have a very curious

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H----.

A diagnosis of our history proves Our native land a land its native loves: Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more, behold how foreign shores Sink into nothingness beside its stores. Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra grand-- The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land--

The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after reading thus far, for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party.

Turn we now to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN B----.

The sun sinks softly to his evening post, The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost, And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; But still our country's noble planet glows, While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

Upon finding that this does not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle," the committee feel justified in declining it; it being furthermore prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.

Next we quote from a

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY GENERAL GEORGE P. M----.

In the days that tried our fathers, Many years ago, Our fair land achieved her freedom Blood-bought, you know. Shall we not defend her ever, As we'd defend That fair maiden, kind and tender, Calling us friend?

Yes! Let all the echoes answer, From hill and vale; Yes! Let other nations hearing, Joy in the tale. Our Columbia is a lady, High born and fair, We have sworn allegiance to her,-- Touch her who dare.

The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric hankerchiefs for ladies especially.

Observe this

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY N. P. W----.

One hue of our flag is taken From the cheeks of my blushing pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle Like the studs on her chemisette.

Its blue is the ocean shadow That hides in her dreamy eyes, And it conquers all men, like her, And still for a Union flies.

Several members of the committee find that this "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them.

We next peruse a

NATIONAL ANTHEM.

BY THOMAS BAILEY A----.

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, The cricket quaintly sings; The emerald pigeon nods his head, And the shad in the river springs; The dainty sunflower hangs its head On the shore of the summer sea; And better far that I were dead, If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, And the cricket that quaintly sings; And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, And the shad that gayly springs. I love the dainty sunflower, too, And Maud with her snowy breast; I love them all; but I love--I love-- I love my country best.

This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson. Though it may be rejected by the committee, it can never lose its value as a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill the youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, beside touching the youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.

ROBERT H. NEWELL (_Orpheus C. Kerr_).

BELAGCHOLLY DAYS.

Chilly Dovebber with its boadigg blast Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd, Eved October's suddy days are past-- Add Subber's gawd!

I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg-- Because I bust.

Dear leaves that rustle sadly 'death by feet-- By liggerigg feet--add fill by eyes with tears, Ye bake be sad, add oh! it gars be greet That ye are sear!

The sud id sulled skies too early sigks; Do trees are greed but evergreeds add ferds; Gawd are the orioles add bobligks-- Those Robert Burds!

Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds, To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke; Farewell to all articulated words I faid would speak.

Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward, Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you; With sorrowigg heart I, wretched add forlord, Bid you--_achew!!!_

ANONYMOUS.

SNEEZING.

What a moment, what a doubt! All my nose is inside out,-- All my thrilling, tickling caustic, Pyramid rhinocerostic, Wants to sneeze and cannot do it! How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me, How with rapturous torment wrings me! Now says, "Sneeze, you fool,--get through it." Shee--shee--oh! 'tis most del-ishi-- Ishi--ishi--most del-ishi! (Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!) Snuff is a delicious thing.

LEIGH HUNT.

TO MY NOSE.

Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joys Which my nose knows? O nose, I am as proud of thee As any mountain of its snows; I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows!

ALFRED A. FORRESTER (_Alfred Crowquill_).

LAPSUS CALAMI.

TO R. K.

Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an ass, And a boy's eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass:

When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from Kipling And the Haggards ride no more?

JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.

A CONSERVATIVE.

The garden beds I wandered by One bright and cheerful morn, When I found a new-fledged butterfly, A-sitting on a thorn, A black and crimson butterfly, All doleful and forlorn.

I thought that life could have no sting, To infant butterflies, So I gazed on this unhappy thing With wonder and surprise, While sadly with his waving wing He wiped his weeping eyes.

Said I, "What can the matter be? Why weepest thou so sore? With garden fair and sunlight free And flowers in goodly store:"-- But he only turned away from me And burst into a roar.

Cried he, "My legs are thin and few Where once I had a swarm! Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view-- Once kept my body warm, Before these flapping wing-things grew, To hamper and deform!"

At that outrageous bug I shot The fury of mine eye; Said I, in scorn all burning hot, In rage and anger high, "You ignominious idiot! Those wings are made to fly!"

"I do not want to fly," said he, "I only want to squirm!" And he drooped his wings dejectedly, But still his voice was firm: "I do not want to be a fly! I want to be a worm!"

O yesterday of unknown lack! To-day of unknown bliss! I left my fool in red and black, The last I saw was this,-- The creature madly climbing back Into his chrysalis.

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN.

"FOREVER."

Forever! 'T is a single word! Our rude forefathers deemed it two; Can you imagine so absurd A view?

Forever! What abysms of woe The word reveals, what frenzy, what Despair! For ever (printed so) Did not.

It looks, ah me! how trite and tame; It fails to sadden or appall Or solace--it is not the same At all.

O thou to whom it first occurred To solder the disjoined, and dower Thy native language with a word Of power:

We bless thee! Whether far or near Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair Thy kingly brow, is neither here Nor there.

But in men's hearts shall be thy throne, While the great pulse of England beats: Thou coiner of a word unknown To Keats!

And nevermore must printer do As men did long ago; but run "For" into "ever," bidding two Be one.

Forever! passion-fraught, it throws O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour: It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose It's grammar.

Forever! 'T is a single word! And yet our fathers deemed it two: Nor am I confident they erred;-- Are you?

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

IV.

INGENUITIES: ODDITIES.

SIEGE OF BELGRADE.

An Austrian army, awfully arrayed, Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade. Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction's devastating doom. Every endeavor engineers essay, For fame, for fortune fighting,--furious fray! Generals 'gainst generals grapple--gracious God! How honors Heaven heroic hardihood! Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill. Labor low levels longest loftiest lines; Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines; Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naught Of outward obstacles, opposing ought; Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed, Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest. Reason returns, religious right redounds, Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds. Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train, Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine! Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain! Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier? Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell! Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal, Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!

ANONYMOUS.

MY LOVE.

I only knew she came and went _Lowell._ Like troutlets in a pool; _Hood._ She was a phantom of delight, _Wordsworth._ And I was like a fool. _Eastman._

One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed, _Coleridge._ Out of those lips unshorn: _Longfellow._ She shook her ringlets round her head, _Stoddard._ And laughed in merry scorn. _Tennyson._

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, _Tennyson._ You heard them, O my heart; _Alice Carey._ 'T is twelve at night by the castle clock, _Coleridge._ Belovèd, we must part. _Alice Carey._

"Come back, come back!" she cried in grief, _Campbell._ "My eyes are dim with tears, _Bayard Taylor._ How shall I live through all the days? _Osgood._ All through a hundred years?" _T. S. Perry._

'T was in the prime of summer time _Hood._ She blessed me with her hand; _Hoyt._ We strayed together, deeply blest, _Edwards._ Into the dreaming land. _Cornwall._

The laughing bridal roses blow, _Patmore._ To dress her dark-brown hair; _Bayard Taylor._ My heart is breaking with my woe, _Tennyson._ Most beautiful! most rare! _Read._

I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, _Browning._ The precious golden link! _Smith._ I calmed her fears, and she was calm, _Coleridge._ "Drink, pretty creature, drink." _Wordsworth._

And so I won my Genevieve, _Coleridge._ And walked in Paradise; _Hervey._ The fairest thing that ever grew _Wordsworth._ Atween me and the skies. _Osgood._

ANONYMOUS.

ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART.

Blind Thamyris, and Blind Mæonides, _Milton._ Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! _Pope._ Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, _Shakespeare._ To point a moral or adorn a tale. _Johnson._

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, _Gray._ Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, _Tennyson._ Like angels' visits, few and far between, _Campbell._ Deck the long vista of departed years. _?_

Man never is, but always to be blessed; _Pope._ The tenth transmitter of a foolish face, _Savage._ Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest, _Pope._ And makes a sunshine in the shady place. _Spenser._

For man the hermit sighed, till the woman smiled, _Campbell._ To waft a feather or to drown a fly, _Young._ (In wit a man, simplicity a child,) _Pope._ With silent finger pointing to the sky. _?_

But fools rush in where angels fear to tread, _Pope._ Far out amid the melancholy main; _Thomson._ As when a vulture on Imaus bred, _?_ Dies of a rose in aromatic pain. _Pope._

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

METRICAL FEET.

Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable. Iambics march from short to long;-- With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng; One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;-- First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun--one gun! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,-- Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-- Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic pit sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas upblazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"

Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers, waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;-- But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears--what faith is man's!--Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

THOMAS HOOD.

RAILROAD RHYME.

Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,-- Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail!

Men of different "stations" In the eye of fame, Here are very quickly Coming to the same; High and lowly people, Birds of every feather, On a common level, Travelling together.

Gentleman in shorts, Looming very tall; Gentleman at large Talking very small; Gentleman in tights, With a loose-ish mien; Gentleman in gray, Looking rather green;

Gentleman quite old, Asking for the news, Gentleman in black, In a fit of blues; Gentleman in claret, Sober as a vicar; Gentleman in tweed, Dreadfully in liquor!

Stranger on the right Looking very sunny, Obviously reading Something rather funny. Now the smiles are thicker,-- Wonder what they mean! Faith, he's got the Knicker- Bocker Magazine!

Stranger on the left Closing up his peepers; Now he snores amain, Like the Seven Sleepers; At his feet a volume Gives the explanation, How the man grew stupid From "Association"!

Ancient maiden lady Anxiously remarks, That there must be peril 'Mong so many sparks; Roguish-looking fellow, Turning to the stranger, Says it's his opinion _She_ is out of danger!

Woman with her baby, Sitting _vis-à-vis_; Baby keeps a-squalling, Woman looks at me; Asks about the distance, Says it 's tiresome talking, Noises of the cars Are so very shocking!

Market-woman, careful Of the precious casket, Knowing eggs are eggs, Tightly holds her basket; Feeling that a smash, If it came, would surely Send her eggs to pot, Rather prematurely. Singing through the forests, Rattling over ridges; Shooting under arches, Rumbling over bridges; Whizzing through the mountains, Buzzing o'er the vale,-- Bless me! this is pleasant, Riding on the rail!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

PHYSICS.

(THE UNCONSCIOUS POETIZING OF A PHILOSOPHER.)

There is no force however great Can stretch a cord however fine Into a horizontal line That shall be accurately straight.

WILLIAM WHEWELL.

THE COLLEGIAN TO HIS BRIDE:

BEING A MATHEMATICAL MADRIGAL IN THE

SIMPLEST FORM.