The Book of Humorous Verse Part 39

_No gold can buy you entrance there_; _But beggared Love may go all bare_-- _No wisdom won with weariness_; _But Love goes in with Folly's dress_-- _No fame that wit could ever win_; _But only Love may lead Love in_ _To Arcady, to Arcady_.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.

There was a time, when life was new-- But far away, and half forgot-- I only know her eyes were blue; But Love--I fear I knew it not.

We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old.

All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

_Ah, then I fear we part_ (quoth he), _My way's for Love and Arcady._

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair.

What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

_Ah, no, not lonely do I fare; My true companion's Memory.

With Love he fills the Spring-time air; With Love he clothes the Winter tree.

Oh, past this poor horizon's bound My song goes straight to one who stands-- Her face all gladdening at the sound-- To lead me to the Spring-green lands, To wander with enlacing hands.

The songs within my breast that stir Are all of her, are all of her.

My maid is dead long years_ (quoth he), _She waits for me in Arcady_.

_Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry._

_H. C. Bunner._

MY LOVE AND MY HEART

Oh, the days were ever shiny When I ran to meet my love; When I press'd her hand so tiny Through her tiny tiny glove.

Was I very deeply smitten?

Oh, I loved like _anything_!

But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

She was pleasingly poetic, And she loved my little rhymes; For our tastes were sympathetic, In the old and happy times.

Oh, the ballads I have written, And have taught my love to sing!

But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

Would she listen to my offer, On my knees I would impart A sincere and ready proffer Of my hand and of my heart.

And below her dainty mitten I would fix a wedding ring-- But my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

Take a warning, happy lover, From the moral that I show; Or too late you may discover What I learn'd a month ago.

We are scratch'd or we are bitten By the pets to whom we cling.

Oh, my love she is a kitten, And my heart's a ball of string.

_Henry S. Leigh._

QUITE BY CHANCE

She flung the parlour window wide One eve of mid-July, And he, as fate would have it tide, That moment sauntered by.

His eyes were blue and hers were brown, With drooping fringe of jet; And he looked up as she looked down, And so their glances met.

_Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day._

A mile beyond the straggling street, A quiet pathway goes; And lovers here are wont to meet, As all the country knows.

Now she one night at half-past eight Had sought that lonely lane, When _he_ came up, by will of fate, And so they met again.

_Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day._

The parish church, so old and gray, Is quite a sight to see; And he was there at ten one day, And so, it chanced, was she.

And while they stood, with cheeks aflame, And neighbours liked the fun, In stole and hood the parson came, And made the couple one.

_Things as strange, I dare to say, Happen somewhere every day._

_Frederick Langbridge._

THE NUN

SUGGESTED BY PART OF THE ITALIAN SONG, BEGINNING "SE MONECA TI FAI."

I

If you become a nun, dear, A friar I will be; In any cell you run, dear, Pray look behind for me.

The roses all turn pale, too; The doves all take the veil, too; The blind will see the show: What! you become a nun, my dear!

I'll not believe it, no.

II

If you become a nun, dear, The bishop Love will be; The Cupids every one, dear, Will chaunt "We trust in thee"; The incense will go sighing, The candles fall a dying, The water turn to wine: What! you go take the vows, my dear!

You may--but they'll be mine.

_Leigh Hunt._

THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me-- Our mutual flame is like th' affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Pota.s.sium to thine Oxygen.

'Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical.

Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, A living acid; thou an alkali Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together, We both might coalesce into one salt, One h.o.m.ogeneous crystal. Oh, that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen; We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime!

And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret.

I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda. In that case We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead we'd form the salt that's named from Epsom.

Couldst thou Pota.s.sa be, I Aqua-fortis, Our happy union should that compound form, Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpetre.

And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We'd live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshly _tertium quid_, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?