Part 22

Charmer, on a given straight line, And which we will call B C, Meeting at a common point A, Draw the lines A C, A B. But, my sweetest, so arrange it That they're equal, all the three; Then you'll find that, in the sequel, All their angles, too are equal. Equal angles, so to term them, Each one opposite its brother! Equal joys and equal sorrows, Equal hopes, 'twere sin to smother, Equal,--O, divine ecstatics,-- Based on Hutton's mathematics!

PUNCH.

THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING.

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays Now divers birds are heard to sing, And sundry flowers their heads upraise, Hail to the coming on of spring!

The songs of those said birds arouse The memory of our youthful hours, As green as those said sprays and boughs, As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.

The birds aforesaid,--happy pairs,-- Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines In freehold nests; themselves, their heirs, Administrators, and assigns.

O busiest term of Cupid's Court, Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,-- Season of frolic and of sport, Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring!

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

THE COSMIC EGG.

Upon a rock yet uncreate, Amid a chaos inchoate, An uncreated being sate; Beneath him, rock, Above him, cloud. And the cloud was rock, And the rock was cloud. The rock then growing soft and warm, The cloud began to take a form, A form chaotic, vast, and vague, Which issued in the cosmic egg. Then the Being uncreate On the egg did incubate, And thus became the incubator; And of the egg did allegate, And thus became the alligator; And the incubator was potentate, But the alligator was potentator.

ANONYMOUS.

THE HEN.

A famous hen's my story's theme, Which ne'er was known to tire Of laying eggs, but then she'd scream So loud o'er every egg, 't would seem The house must be on fire. A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk, A wiser bird and older, Could bear 't no more, so off did stalk Right to the hen, and told her: "Madam, that scream, I apprehend, Adds nothing to the matter; It surely helps the egg no whit; Then lay your egg, and done with it! I pray you, madam, as a friend, Cease that superfluous clatter! You know not how 't goes through my head." "Humph! very likely!" madam said, Then proudly putting forth a leg,-- "Uneducated barnyard fowl! You know, no more than any owl, The noble privilege and praise Of authorship in modern days-- I'll tell you why I do it: First, you perceive, I lay the egg, And then--review it."

From the German of MATTHAIAS CLAUDIUS.

ODE--TO THE ROC.

O unhatched Bird, so high preferred, As porter of the Pole, Of beakless things, who have no wings, Exact no heavy toll. If this my song its theme should wrong, The theme itself is sweet; Let others rhyme the unborn time, I sing the Obsolete.

And first, I praise the nobler traits Of birds preceding Noah, The giant clan, whose meat was Man, Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa. These, by hints we get from prints Of feathers and of feet, Excelled in wits the later tits, And so are obsolete.

I sing each race whom we displace In their primeval woods, While Gospel Aid inspires Free-Trade To traffic with their goods. With Norman Dukes the still Sioux In breeding might compete; But where men talk the tomahawk Will soon grow obsolete.

I celebrate each perished State; Great cities ploughed to loam; Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings; Dead Greece, and dying Rome. The Druids' shrine may shelter swine, Or stack the farmer's peat; 'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths, Mean men the obsolete.

Shall nought be said of theories dead? The Ptolemaic system? Figure and phrase, that bent all ways Duns Scotus liked to twist 'em? Averrhoes' thought? and what was taught, In Salamanca's seat? Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs? Sea-serpents obsolete?

Pillion and pack have left their track; Dead is "the Tally-ho;" Steam rails cut down each festive crown Of the old world and slow; Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen, Nor Maypole in the street; No mummers play on Christmas-day; St. George is obsolete.

O fancy, why hast thou let die So many a frolic fashion? Doublet and hose, and powdered beaux? Where are thy songs whose passion Turned thought to fire in knight and squire, While hearts of ladies beat? Where thy sweet style, ours, ours erewhile? All this is obsolete.

In Auvergne low potatoes grow Upon volcanoes old; The moon, they say, had her young day, Though now her heart is cold; Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth, Seasons of snow and heat, Checked by her tides in silence glides To become obsolete.

The astrolabe of every babe Reads, in its fatal sky, "Man's largest room is the low tomb-- Ye all are born to die." Therefore this theme, O Bird, I deem The noblest we may treat; The final cause of Nature's laws Is to grow obsolete.

WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE.

MOTHERHOOD.

She laid it where the sunbeams fall Unscanned upon the broken wall. Without a tear, without a groan, She laid it near a mighty stone, Which some rude swain had haply cast Thither in sport, long ages past, And time with mosses had o'erlaid, And fenced with many a tall grass-blade, And all about bid roses bloom And violets shed their soft perfume. There, in its cool and quiet bed, She set her burden down and fled: Nor flung, all eager to escape, One glance upon the perfect shape, That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, But motionless and soundless there. No human eye had marked her pass Across the linden-shadowed grass Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven: Only the innocent birds of heaven-- The magpie, and the rook whose nest Swings as the elm-tree waves his crest-- And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-limbed hound that guards the door, Looked on when, as a summer wind That, passing, leaves no trace behind, All unapparelled, barefoot all, She ran to that old ruined wall, To leave upon the chill dank earth (For ah! she never knew its worth), Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling, And dews of night, that precious thing! And then it might have lain forlorn From morn to eve, from eve to morn: But, that, by some wild impulse led, The mother, ere she turned and fled, One moment stood erect and high; Then poured into the silent sky A cry so jubilant, so strange, That Alice--as she strove to range Her rebel ringlets at her glass-- Sprang up and gazed across the grass; Shook back those curls so fair to see, Clapped her soft hands in childish glee; And shrieked--her sweet face all aglow, Her very limbs with rapture shaking-- "My hen has laid an egg, I know; And only hear the noise she's making!"

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

DISASTER.

'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour My fondest hopes would not decay: I never loved a tree or flower Which was the first to fade away! The garden, where I used to delve Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty; The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve, I see still blossoming, at twenty.

I never nursed a dear gazelle. But I was given a paroquet-- How I did nurse him if unwell! He's imbecile but lingers yet. He's green, with an enchanting tuft; He melts me with his small black eye: He'd look inimitable stuffed, And knows it--but he will not die!

I had a kitten--I was rich In pets--but all too soon my kitten Became a full-sized cat, by which I've more than once been scratched and bitten: And when for sleep her limbs she curled One day beside her untouched plateful, And glided calmly from the world, I freely own that I was grateful.

And then I bought a dog--a queen! Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug! She lives, but she is past sixteen, And scarce can crawl across the rug. I loved her beautiful and kind; Delighted in her pert bow-wow: But now she snaps if you don't mind; 'T were lunacy to love her now.

I used to think, should e'er mishap Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, In shape of prowling thief, or trap, Or coarse bull-terrier--I should die. But ah! disasters have their use; And life might e'en be too sunshiny: Nor would I make myself a goose, If some big dog should swallow Tiny.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

[A farmers daughter, during the rage for albums, handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.]

| £. | s. | d. This world's a scene as dark as Styx, | | | Where hope is scarce worth | | 2 | 6 Our joys are borne so fleeting hence | | | That they are dear at | | | 18 And yet to stay here most are willing, | | | Although they may not have | | 1 |

WILLIS GAYLORD.

ON THE BRINK.

I watched her as she stooped to pluck A wild flower in her hair to twine; And wished that it had been my luck To call her mine;

Anon I heard her rate with mad, Mad words her babe within its cot, And felt particularly glad That it had not.

I knew (such subtle brains have men!) That she was uttering what she shouldn't; And thought that I would chide, and then I thought I wouldn't.

Few could have gazed upon that face, Those pouting coral lips, and chided: A Rhadamanthus, in my place, Had done as I did.

For wrath with which our bosoms glow Is chained there oft by Beauty's spell; And, more than that, I did not know The widow well.

So the harsh phrase passed unreproved: Still mute--(O brothers, was it sin?)-- I drank unutterably moved, Her beauty in.

And to myself I murmured low, As on her upturned face and dress The moonlight fell, "Would she say No,-- By chance, or Yes?"

She stood so calm, so like a ghost, Betwixt me and that magic moon, That I already was almost A finished coon.

But when she caught adroitly up And soothed with smiles her little daughter; And gave it, if I'm right, a sup Of barley-water;

And, crooning still the strange, sweet lore Which only mothers' tongues can utter, Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'er Its bread-and-butter;

And kissed it clingingly (ah, why Don't women do these things in private?)-- I felt that if I lost her, I Should not survive it.

And from my mouth the words nigh flew,-- The past, the future, I forgat 'em,-- "Oh, if you'd kiss me as you do That thankless atom!"

But this thought came ere yet I spake, And froze the sentence on my lips: "They err who marry wives that make Those little slips."

It came like some familiar rhyme, Some copy to my boyhood set; And that's perhaps the reason I'm Unmarried yet.

Would she have owned how pleased she was, And told her love with widow's pride? I never found out that, because I never tried.

Be kind to babes and beasts and birds, Hearts may be hard though lips are coral; And angry words are angry words: And that's the moral.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.

THE V-A-S-E.

From the maddening crowd they stand apart, The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone In which had culture ripest grown,--

The Gotham Millions fair to see, The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue, Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,--

For all loved Art in a seemly way, With an earnest soul and a capital A.

* * * * *

Long they worshipped; but no one broke The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place, Who blushingly said: "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew, And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred To crush the stranger with one small word

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, She cries: "'T is, indeed, a lovely vaze!"

But brief her unworthy triumph when The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grand papas, Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill, Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!

"I did not catch your remark, because I was so entranced with that charming vaws!"

_Dies erit prægelida_ _Sinistra quum Bostonia._

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.

LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES.

Alone I sit at eventide: The twilight glory pales, And o'er the meadows far and wide Chant pensive bobolinks. (One might say nightingales!)

Song-sparrows warble on the tree, I hear the purling brook, And from the old "manse o'er the lea" Flies slow the cawing crow. (In England 'twere a rook!)

The last faint golden beams of day Still glow on cottage panes, And on their lingering homeward way Walk weary laboring men. (Oh, would that we had swains!)

From farm-yards, down fair rural glades Come sounds of tinkling bells, And songs of merry brown milkmaids, Sweeter than oriole's. (Yes, thank you--Philomel's!)

I could sit here till morning came, All through the night hours dark, Until I saw the sun's bright flame And heard the chickadee. (Alas we have no lark!)

We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, No swains, no nightingales, No singing milkmaids (save in books): The poet does his best-- It is the rhyme that fails!

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

OF BLUE CHINA.

There's a joy without canker or cark, There's a pleasure eternally new, 'T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark Of china that's ancient and blue; Unchipped, all the centuries through It has passed, since the chime of it rang, And they fashioned it, figure and hue, In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

These dragons (their tails, you remark, Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),-- When Noah came out of the ark, Did these lie in wait for his crew? They snorted, they snapped, and they slew, They were mighty of fin and of fang, And their portraits Celestials drew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

Here's a pot with a cot in a park, In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, Where the lovers eloped in the dark, Lived, died, and were changed into two Bright birds that eternally flew Through the boughs of the may, as they sang; 'T is a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

ENVOY

Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, Kind critic; your "tongue has a tang," But--a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

ANDREW LANG.

A RIDDLE.[14]

THE LETTER "H."

'T was in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, Ah, breathe on it softly,--it dies in an hour.

CATHARINE FANSHAWE.

[14] Sometimes attributed to Byron.

A THRENODY.

"The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."--_London Papers._

What, what, what, What's the news from Swat? Sad news, Bad news, Comes by the cable led Through the Indian Ocean's bed, Through the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the Med- Iterranean--he's dead; The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Ahkoond I mourn, Who wouldn't? He strove to disregard the message stern, But he Ahkoodn't. Dead, dead, dead; (Sorrow Swats!) Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, Swats whom he had often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be, Sorrow Swats! Tears shed, Shed tears like water, Your great Ahkoond is dead! That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat! Your great Ahkoond is not, But lain 'mid worms to rot. His mortal part alone, his soul was caught (Because he was a good Ahkoond) Up to the bosom of Mahound. Though earthy walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be the ground!) And sceptics mock the lowly mound And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" His soul is in the skies,-- The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. He sees with larger, other eyes, Athwart all earthly mysteries-- He knows what's Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length Its tower of strength, Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not!

GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN.

LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGTON.

Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy, Shall we seek for communion of souls Where the deep Mississippi meanders, Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls?

Ah no,--for in Maine I will find thee A sweetly sequestrated nook, Where the far winding Skoodoowabskooksis Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook.

There wander two beautiful rivers, With many a winding and crook; The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis, The other--the Skoodoowabskook.

Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned In geography, atlas, or book, How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis, When joining the Skoodoowabskook!

Our cot shall be close by the waters Within that sequestrated nook-- Reflected in Skoodoowabskooksis And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook.

You shall sleep to the music of leaflets, By zephyrs in wantonness shook, And dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook.

When awaked by the hens and the roosters, Each morn, you shall joyously look On the junction of Skoodoowabskooksis With the soft gliding Skoodoowabskook.

Your food shall be fish from the waters, Drawn forth on the point of a hook, From murmuring Skoodoowabskookis, Or wandering Skoodoowabskook!

You shall quaff the most sparkling of water, Drawn forth from a silvery brook Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis, And then to the Skoodoowabskook!

And you shall preside at the banquet, And I will wait on thee as cook; And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis, And sing of the Skoodoowabskook!

Let others sing loudly of Saco, Of Quoddy, and Tattamagouche, Of Kennebeccasis, and Quaco, Of Merigonishe, and Buctouche,

Of Nashwaak, and Magaguadavique, Or Memmerimammericook,-- There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis, Excepting the Skoodoowabskook!

ANONYMOUS.

V.

NONSENSE.

NONSENSE.

Good reader, if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids with their tresses green Dancing upon the western billow; If you have seen at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding shore, The fairy train their ringlets weave Glancing along the spangled green; I you have seen all this, and more-- God bless me! what a deal you've seen!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE PURPLE COW.

I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one; But I can tell you, anyhow, I rather see than be one.

GELETT BURGESS.

PSYCHOLOPHON.

[Supposed to be translated from the Old Parsee.]

Twine then the rays Round her soft Theban tissues! All will be as She says, When that dead past reissues. Matters not what nor where, Hark, to the moon's dim cluster! How was her heavy hair Lithe as a feather duster! Matters not when nor whence; Flittertigibbet! Sound makes the song, not sense, Thus I inhibit!

GELETT BURGESS.

THE BAKER'S TALE.

FROM "THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK."

They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice-- They roused him with mustard and cress-- They roused him with jam and judicious advice-- They set him conundrums to guess.

When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!" And excitedly tingled his bell.

There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, Scarcely even a howl or a groan, As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe In an antediluvian tone.

"My father and mother were honest though poor--" "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste. "If it once become dark, there's no chance of a Snark-- We have hardly a minute to waste!"

"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, "And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark.

"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) Remarked, when I bade him farewell--" "Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell.

"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men, "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right: Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens, And it's handy for striking a light.

"'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap--'"

("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold In a hasty parenthesis cried, "That's exactly the way I have always been told That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")

"'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!'

"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, When I think of my uncle's last words: And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl Brimming over with quivering curds!

"It is this, it is this--" "We have had that before!" The Bellman indignantly said. And the Baker replied, "Let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread!

"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark-- In a dreamy, delirious fight: I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, And I use it for striking a light:

"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, In a moment (of this I am sure), I shall softly and suddenly vanish away-- And the notion I cannot endure!"

CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON (_Lewis Carroll_).

JABBERWOCKY.

'T was brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought-- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!