The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 20

If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,-- My own Araminta, say "No!"

He must walk like a G.o.d of old story Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh! from its ivory portal Like music his soft speech must flow!-- If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth; But give him a theme to write verse on, And see if he turns out his toe;-- If he's only an excellent person, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

A NICE CORRESPONDENT

"There are plenty of roses" (the patriarch speaks) "Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks; Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare, Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair."

The glow and the glory are plighted To darkness, for evening is come; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.

I'm alone, for the others have flitted To dine with a neighbor at Kew: Alone, but I'm not to be pitied-- I'm thinking of you!

I wish you were here! Were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color-- Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!

I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fastened askew!

Was there ever so rude or so reckless A Darling as you?

I want you to come and pa.s.s sentence On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"?

I am reading Sir Waverley Scott.

That story of Edgar and Lucy, How thrilling, romantic, and true!

The Master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.

They tell me c.o.c.kaigne has been crowning A Poet whose garland endures;-- It was you that first told me of Browning,-- That stupid old Browning of yours!

His vogue and his verve are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due; But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming A Poet as you!

I heard how you shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer.

There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!

Small marvel that Folly is making Her Idol of you!

Alas for the World, and its dearly Bought triumph,--its fugitive bliss; Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless Miss; But, perhaps, one is blest with "a measure Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My Darling, to you!

Your whim is for frolic and fashion, Your taste is for letters and art;-- This rhyme is the commonplace pa.s.sion That glows in a fond woman's heart: Lay it by in some sacred deposit For relics--we all have a few!

Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was written to You.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

HER LETTER

I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire,-- It cost a cool thousand in France; I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue: In short, sir, "the belle of the season"

Is wasting an hour upon you.

A dozen engagements I've broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits--on the stairs--for me yet.

They say he'll be rich,--when he grows up,-- And then he adores me indeed; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?"

"And what do I think of New York?"

"And now, in my higher ambition, With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"

"And isn't it nice to have riches, And diamonds and silks, and all that?"

"And aren't they a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well, yes,--if you saw us out driving Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, If you saw poor dear mamma contriving To look supernaturally grand,-- If you saw papa's picture, as taken By Brady, and tinted at that,-- You'd never suspect he sold bacon And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting In the glare of the grand chandelier,-- In the bustle and glitter befitting The "finest soiree of the year,"-- In the mists of a gaze de Chambery, And the hum of the smallest of talk,-- Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry,"

And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"

Of Harrison's bar, with its muster Of flags festooned over the wall; Of the candles that shed their soft l.u.s.tre And tallow on head-dress and shawl; Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis; And how I once went down the middle With the man that shot Sandy McGee.

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride,--that to me was the rarest, Of--the something you said at the gate.

Ah! Joe, then I wasn't an heiress To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny To think, as I stood in the glare Of fashion and beauty and money, That I should be thinking, right there, Of some one who breasted high water, And swam the North Fork, and all that, Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter, The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!

(Mamma says my taste still is low), Instead of my triumphs reciting,-- I'm spooning on Joseph,--heigh-ho!

And I'm to be "finished" by travel,-- Whatever's the meaning of that.

Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night!--here's the end of my paper; Good-night!--if the longitude please,-- For maybe, while wasting my taper, Your sun's climbing over the trees.

But know, if you haven't got riches, And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,--on Poverty Flat

Bret Harte [1830-1902]

A DEAD LETTER A coeur blesse--l'ombre et le silence.--Balzac

I I drew it from its china tomb;-- It came out feebly scented With some thin ghost of past perfume That dust and days had lent it.

An old, old letter,--folded still!

To read with due composure, I sought the sun-lit window-sill, Above the gray enclosure,

That, glimmering in the sultry haze, Faint-flowered, dimly shaded, Slumbered like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize, Bedizened and brocaded.

A queer old place! You'd surely say Some tea-board garden-maker Had planned it in Dutch William's day To please some florist Quaker,

So trim it was. The yew-trees still, With pious care perverted, Grew in the same grim shapes; and still The lipless dolphin spurted;

Still in his wonted state abode The broken-nosed Apollo; And still the cypress-arbor showed The same umbrageous hollow.

Only,--as fresh young Beauty gleams From coffee-colored laces, So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams The fresher modern traces;