Second Book of Verse Part 7

You pined for a favorite youth with cityfied damsels hobn.o.bbing; And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your recusant lover,-- The pine-trees, the copse and the brook, for t.i.tyrus ever went sobbing.

t.i.tYRUS.

Melibus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of pity; My toil was all vain the year through, no matter how earnest or clever, Till, at last, came that G.o.d among men, that king from that wonderful city, And quoth: "Take your homesteads again; they are yours and your a.s.signs forever!"

MELIBUS.

Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what 's better than money,-- Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere listening; Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey, Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are glistening-- Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices,-- The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoa.r.s.ely repining, The plash of the sacred cascade,--ah, restful, indeed, are these voices, t.i.tyrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree reclining!

t.i.tYRUS.

And he who insures this to me--oh, craven I were not to love him!

Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim in, The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above him, While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women!

MELIBUS (suddenly recalling his own misery).

But we who are exiled must go; and whither--ah, whither--G.o.d knoweth!

Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reigneth only; Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth; And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely.

Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress thee?

Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the alien be squandered?

Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest possess thee, Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I've wandered?

My flock! nevermore shall you graze on that furze-covered hillside above me; Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance to sorrow!

Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones that love me,-- Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-morrow!

t.i.tYRUS.

But rest you this night with me here; my bed,--we will share it together, As soon as you've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts and cheeses; The evening already is nigh,--the shadows creep over the heather, And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the breezes.

PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE.

ALL day long they come and go,-- Pittypat and Tippytoe; Footprints up and down the hall, Playthings scattered on the floor, Finger-marks along the wall, Tell-tale streaks upon the door,-- By these presents you shall know Pittypat and Tippytoe.

How they riot at their play!

And, a dozen times a day, In they troop, demanding bread,-- Only b.u.t.tered bread will do, And that b.u.t.ter must be spread Inches thick with sugar too!

Never yet have I said, "No, Pittypat and Tippytoe!"

Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; For--I much regret to say-- Tippytoe and Pittypat Sometimes interrupt their play With an internecine spat; Fie! oh, fie! to quarrel so, Pittypat and Tippytoe!

Oh, the thousand worrying things Every day recurrent brings!

Hands to scrub and hair to brush, Search for playthings gone amiss, Many a murmuring to hush, Many a little b.u.mp to kiss; Life's indeed a fleeting show, Pittypat and Tippytoe!

And when day is at an end, There are little duds to mend; Little frocks are strangely torn, Little shoes great holes reveal, Little hose, but one day worn, Rudely yawn at toe or heel!

Who but you could work such woe, Pittypat and Tippytoe!

But when comes this thought to me, "Some there are that childless be,"

Stealing to their little beds, With a love I cannot speak, Tenderly I stroke their heads, Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.

G.o.d help those who do not know A Pittypat or Tippytoe!

On the floor, along the hall, Rudely traced upon the wall, There are proofs in every kind Of the havoc they have wrought; And upon my heart you'd find Just such trademarks, if you sought.

Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, Pittypat and Tippytoe!

ASHES ON THE SLIDE.

WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago.

How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow!

Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright, Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still.

Ah, coasting in those days--those good old days--was fun indeed!

Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed!

And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again; But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide!

The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums, And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs, And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew The G.o.dless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue!

The pathway that leads down to h.e.l.l is slippery, straight, and wide; And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!"

Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite In interfering with the play wherein we found delight; And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride: "Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide!"

But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest, His money well invested in farm mortgages out West; Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life; That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide!

And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now.

Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou!

Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go; The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe; And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died, He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide!

THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS.

"CUPID!" Venus went a-crying; "Cupid, whither dost thou stray?

Tell me, people, hither hieing, Have you seen my runaway?

Speak,--my kiss shall be your pay!

Yes, and sweets more gratifying, If you bring him back to-day.

"Cupid," Venus went a-calling, "Is a rosy little youth, But his beauty is inthralling.

He will speak you fair, in sooth, Wheedle you with glib untruth,-- Honey-like his words; but galling Are his deeds, and full of ruth!