A Little Book of Old Time Verse Part 7

From the beards a cord she made, Loop'd it to the bal.u.s.trade, Glided down and went away To her own Circa.s.sia.

When the Sultan heard, wax'd he Somewhat wroth, and presently In the noose themselves did lend Every Vizier did suspend.

Sages all, this rhyme who read, Of your beards take prudent heed, And beware the wily plans Of the fair Circa.s.sians.

--_Richard Garnett_

The Constant Lover

Out upon it, I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.

Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise Is due at all to me: Love with me had made no stays Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

--_John Suckling_

Farewell

It is buried and done with, The love that we knew: Those cobwebs we spun with Are beaded with dew.

I loved thee; I leave thee: To love thee was pain: I dare not believe thee To love thee again.

Like spectres unshriven Are the years that I lost; To thee they were given Without count of cost.

I cannot revive them By penance or prayer; h.e.l.l's tempest must drive them Thro' turbulent air.

Farewell, and forget me; For I, too, am free From the shame that beset me, The sorrow of thee.

--_John Addington Symonds_

Song

How blest has my time been, what days have I known, Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessie my own!

So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless and roving a pain.

Through walks, grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our girls and boys frolic and play, How pleasing their sport is, the wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessie and me.

To try her sweet temper sometimes am I seen In revels all day with the nymphs of the green; Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles, And meets me at night with compliance and smiles.

What though on her cheek the rose loses its hue, Her ease and good humour bloom all the year through, Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, And cheat with false vows the too credulous fair, In search of true pleasure how vainly you roam, To hold it for life, you must find it at home.

--_Edward Moore_

On a Fan that Belonged to the Marquise de Pompadour

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou!

Picture above if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew-- This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the OEil de Boeuf through, Courtiers as b.u.t.terflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,--to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah! but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez vous!

Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sign and the cue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!

_Envoy_.

Where are the secrets it knew?

Weavings of plot and of plan?

--But where is the Pompadour, too?

This was the Pompadour's Fan!

--_Austin Dobson_

A Birthday

My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow sh.e.l.l That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peac.o.c.ks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

--_Christina Georgina Rossetti_

"Love in thy Youth, Fair Maid"

Love in thy youth, fair maid, be wise, Old Time will make thee colder, And though each morning new arise Yet we each day grow older.

Thou as heaven art fair and young, Thine eyes like twin stars shining: But ere another day be sprung, All these will be declining; Then winter comes with all his fears, And all thy sweets shall borrow; Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears, And I, too late, shall sorrow.

--_Walter Porter_

Days