Second Book of Verse Part 13

The years that speed so fleetly Have blotted out completely All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly; The friendships of that time,--ah, me! they are as precious yet As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette."

IN AMSTERDAM.

MEYNHEER Hans Von Der Bloom has got A majazin in Kalverstraat, Where one may buy for sordid gold Wares quaint and curious, new and old.

Here are antiquities galore,-- The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore, Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks, Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks, And all those joys I might rehea.r.s.e That please the eye, but wreck the purse.

I most admired an ancient bed, With ornate carvings at its head,-- A ma.s.sive frame of dingy oak, Whose curious size and mould bespoke Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried.

"Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied; And then the honest Dutchman said A king once owned that glorious bed,-- King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame, Had owned and slept within the same!

Then long I stood and mutely gazed, By reminiscent splendors dazed, And I had bought it right away, Had I the wherewithal to pay.

But, lacking of the needed pelf, I thus discoursed within myself: "O happy Holland! where's the bliss That can approximate to this Possession of the rare antique Which maniacs hanker for and seek?

_My_ native land is full of stuff That's good, but is not old enough.

Alas! it has no oaken beds Wherein have slumbered royal heads, No relic on whose face we see The proof of grand antiquity."

Thus reasoned I a goodly spell Until, perchance, my vision fell Upon a trademark at the head Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed,-- A rampant wolverine, and round This strange device these words I found: "Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay, Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A."

At present I'm not saying much About the simple, guileless Dutch; And as it were a loathsome spot I keep away from Kalverstraat, Determined when I want a bed In which hath slept a royal head I'll patronize no middleman, But deal direct with Michigan.

TO THE Pa.s.sING SAINT.

AS to-night you came your way, Bearing earthward heavenly joy, Tell me, O dear saint, I pray, Did you see my little boy?

By some fairer voice beguiled, Once he wandered from my sight; He is such a little child, He should have my love this night.

It has been so many a year,-- Oh, so many a year since then!

Yet he was so very dear, Surely he will come again.

If upon your way you see One whose beauty is divine, Will you send him back to me?

He is lost, and he is mine.

Tell him that his little chair Nestles where the sunbeams meet, That the shoes he used to wear Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet.

Tell him of each pretty toy That was wont to share his glee; Maybe that will bring my boy Back to them and back to me.

O dear saint, as on you go Through the glad and sparkling frost, Bid those bells ring high and low For a little child that's lost!

O dear saint, that blessest men With the grace of Christmas joy, Soothe this heart with love again,-- Give me back my little boy!

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST.

OF all the gracious gifts of Spring, Is there another can surpa.s.s This delicate, voluptuous thing,-- This dapple-green, plump-shouldered ba.s.s?

Upon a damask napkin laid, What exhalations superfine Our gustatory nerves pervade, Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!

The ancients loved this n.o.ble fish; And, coming from the kitchen fire All piping hot upon a dish, What raptures did he not inspire?

"Fish should swim twice," they used to say,-- Once in their native, vapid brine, And then again, a better way-- You understand; fetch on the wine!

Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, How often have I cast for you, How often sadly seen you scud Where weeds and water-lilies grew!

How often have you filched my bait, How often snapped my treacherous line!

Yet here I have you on this plate,-- You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_.

And, harkee, garcon! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,-- Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood This piscatorial pride should swim; So, were he living, he would say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it were his native spray, He'd lash the sauce--what, ho! the wine!

I would it were ordained for me To share your fate, O finny friend!

I surely were not loath to be Reserved for such a n.o.ble end; For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, At last reels in his ruthless line, What were my ecstasy to swim In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!

Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!

And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, Come hither every year and bring The boons provocative of mirth; And should your stock of ba.s.s run low, However much I might repine, I think I might survive the blow, If plied with wine and still more wine!

NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT.

THE mill goes toiling slowly around With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak; While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghostlike creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings, "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, And over his pot of beer The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, l.u.s.tily maketh cheer; He mocks at the winds that caper along From the far-off, clamorous deep, But we--we love their lullaby-song Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

Old dog Fritz, in slumber sound, Groans of the stony mart; To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you around, Hitched to our new milk-cart!

And you shall help me blanket the kine, And fold the gentle sheep, And set the herring a-soak in brine,-- But now, little tulip, sleep!

A Dream-One comes to b.u.t.ton the eyes That wearily droop and blink, While the old mill buffets the frowning skies, And scolds at the stars that wink; Over your face the misty wings Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, And, rocking your cradle, she softly sings, "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!"

THE ONION TART.

OF tarts there be a thousand kinds, So versatile the art, And, as we all have different minds, Each has his favorite tart; But those which most delight the rest Methinks should suit me not: The onion tart doth please me best,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!

Where but in Deutschland can be found This boon of which I sing?

Who but a Teuton could compound This _sui generis_ thing?

None with the German frau can vie In arts cuisine, I wot, Whose _summum bonum_ breeds the sigh, "Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!"

You slice the fruit upon the dough, And season to the taste, Then in an oven (not too slow) The viand should be placed; And when 'tis done, upon a plate You serve it piping hot.

Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,-- Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!