A line-o'-verse or two Part 4

DORNRoSCHEN

In the great hall of Castle Innocence, Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears,-- Within, without, a silence grave, intense,-- Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years.

Hedged round with thorns of maiden doubts and fears; And all save one the thither path shall miss.

Her soul lies sleeping through the rose-leaf years, Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss.

And all save one the thither path shall miss; For one alone may thread the thorn defence.

Waiting the Prince and his awakening kiss, A hush broods over Castle Innocence.

For one alone may thread the thorn defence, Care free, heart free, and singing on his way.

A hush broods over Castle Innocence One comes to wake;--but when--ah, who can say!

Care free, heart free, and singing on his way, One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare.

One comes to wake! But when? Ah, who can say The hour his light feet press the castle stair?

One comes all thorns of Fear and Doubt to dare!

Thorns with his coming into roses bloom.

The hour his light feet press the castle stair The warders of the castle hall give room.

Thorns with his coming into roses bloom; For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold.

The warders of the castle hall give room Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold.

For him the flowers of Trust and Faith unfold; Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.

Before the young Prince of the Heart of Gold Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years.

Till then the thorns of maiden doubts and fears.

Within, without, a silence grave, intense.

Her rose-soul slumbers through the tranquil years In the great hall of Castle Innocence.

"FAREWELL!"

(_Evoked by Calverley's "Forever."_)

"Farewell!" Another gloomy word As ever into language crept.

'Tis often written, never heard Except

In playhouse. Ere the hero flits (In handcuffs) from our pitying view, "Farewell!" he murmurs, then exits R. U.

"Farewell!" is much too sighful for An age that has not time to sigh.

We say, "I'll see you later," or "Good-bye!"

"Fare well" meant long ago, before It crept tear-spattered into song, "Safe voyage!" "Pleasant journey!" or "So long!"

But gone its cheery, old-time ring: The poets made it rime with knell.

Joined, it became a dismal thing-- "Farewell!"

"Farewell!" Into the lover's soul You see fate plunge the cruel iron.

All poets use it. It's the whole Of Byron.

"I only feel--farewell!" said he; And always tearful was the telling.

Lord Byron was eternally Farewelling.

"Farewell!" A dismal word, 'tis true.

(And why not tell the truth about it?) But what on earth would poets do Without it!

REFORM IN OUR TOWN

There was a man in Our Town And Jimson was his name, Who cried, "Our civic government Is honeycombed with shame."

He called us neighbors in and said, "By Graft we're overrun.

Let's have a general cleaning up, As other towns have done."

The citizens of Our Town Responded to the call; Beneath the banner of Reform We gathered one and all.

We sent away for men expert In hunting civic sin, To ask these practised gentlemen Just how we should begin.

The experts came to Our Town And told us how 'twas done.

"Begin with Gas and Traction, And half your fight is won.

Begin with Gas and Traction; The rest will follow soon."

We looked at one another And hummed a different tune.

Said Smith, "Saloons in Our Town Are palaces of shame."

Said Jones, "Police corruption Has hurt the town's fair name."

Said Brown, "Our lawless children Pitch pennies as they please."

Now would it not be wiser To start Reform with these?

The men who came to Our Town Replied, "No haste with these; Begin with Gas--or Water-- The roots of the disease."

We looked at one another And hemmed and hawed a bit; Enthusiasm faded then From every single cit.

The men who came to Our Town Expressed a mild surprise, Then they too at each other Looked "with a wild surmise."

Jimson had stock in Traction, And Jones had stock in Gas, And Smith and Brown in this and that, So--nothing came to pa.s.s.

The profligates of Our Town Pitch pennies as of yore; Police corruption flourishes As rankly as before, Still are our gilded ginmills Foul palaces of shame.

Reform is just as distant As when the wise men came.

WHEN THE SIRUP'S ON THE FLAPJACK