The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 7

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong, Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along; The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, And as its grateful odors met thy sense, They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen.

Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

At length thy pinion fluttered in Broadway--- Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist; And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin.

Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!

What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?

Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light, As if it brought the memory of pain: Thou art a wayward being--well--come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer!--rouge makes thee sick?

And China Bloom at best is sorry food?

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?

Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime-- But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at--not to touch; To worship--not approach--that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.

Thou should'st have gazed at distance, and admired-- Murmured thy admiration, and retired.

Thou 'rt welcome to the town--but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?

Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.

Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enriched by generous wine and costly meat; On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet; Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows, To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK b.u.t.tONS.

N. P. WILLIS.

I know not who thou art, thou lovely one, Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful, Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me, While handing up thy sixpence through the hole Of that o'er-freighted omnibus!--ah, me!-- The world is full of meetings such as this; A thrill--a voiceless challenge and reply, And sudden partings after--we may pa.s.s, And know not of each other's nearness now, Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and I Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain; And even should I pa.s.s where thou dost dwell-- Nay, see thee in the bas.e.m.e.nt taking tea-- So cold is this inexorable world, I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye, I dare not make articulate my love, Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in Venture to throw to thee my innocent card, Not knowing thy papa.

Hast thou papa?

Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?

And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!

A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!

For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love Can make thee, and the ministering hands Of milliners, incapable of more, Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air, And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly, May rise a wall of adamant. My breath Upon my pale lip freezes as I name Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west In its far down extremity. Thy sire May be the signer of a temperance pledge, And clad all decently may walk the earth-- Nay--may be number'd with that blessed few Who never ask for discount--yet, alas!

If, homeward wending from his daily cares, He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending-- Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown-- My vision is departed! Harshly falls The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!"

And pitiless is woman who doth keep Of "good society" the golden key!

And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, To stoop not after rising!

But farewell, And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell The pa.s.sengers by Broadway Lines alone!

And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed, Art only not more lovely than genteel-- Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette, The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain-- And, with up-town devotedness and truth, My love shall hover round thee!

COME OUT, LOVE.

N. P. WILLIS.

Argument.--The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.

Come out, love--the night is enchanting!

The moon hangs just over Broadway; The stars are all lighted and panting-- (Hot weather up there, I dare say!) 'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices, And love is no better for chilling-- But come up to Thompson's for ices, And cool your warm heart for a shilling!

What perfume comes balmily o'er us?

Mint juleps from City Hotel!

A loafer is smoking before us-- (A nasty cigar, by the smell!)O Woman! thou secret past knowing!

Like lilacs that grow by the wall, You breathe every air that is going, Yet gather but sweetness from all!

On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!

Religion seems very ill-plann'd!

For one day we list to the pastor, For six days we list to the band!

The sermon may dwell on the future, The organ your pulses may calm-- When--pest!--that remember'd cachucha Upsets both the sermon and psalm!

Oh, pity the love that must utter While goes a swift omnibus by!

(Though sweet is I SCREAM* when the flutter Of fans shows thermometers high)-- But if what I bawl, or I mutter, Falls into your ear but to die, Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter Is not more unhappy than I!

*[Footnote: Query--Should this be Ice cream, or I scream?--Printer's Devil.]

THE WHITE CHIP HAT.

N. P. WILLIS.

I pa.s.s'd her one day in a hurry, When late for the Post with a letter-- I think near the corner of Murray-- And up rose my heart as I met her!

I ne'er saw a parasol handled So like to a d.u.c.h.ess's doing-- I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd, Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing-- Lovely thing!

Surprising!--one woman can dish us So many rare sweets up together!

Tournure absolutely delicious-- Chip hat without flower or feather-- Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced, Her waist like the cup of a lily-- And an air, that, while daintily modest, Repell'd both the saucy and silly-- Quite the thing!

For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir, There's reason in tearing one's tether-- And, to see her again in Broadway, sir, Who would not be lavish of leather!

I met her again, and as YOU know I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney-- But I said a bad word--for my Juno Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney-- Horrid thing!

Away flies the dream I had nourish'd-- My castles like mockery fall, sir!

And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!

The bright cup which angels might handle Turns earthy when finger'd by a.s.ses-- And the star that "swaps" light with a candle, Thenceforth for a pennyworth pa.s.ses!-- Not the thing!

YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU N. P. WILLIS.

As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying The air-track of a snipe most pa.s.sing fair-- Yet colder in her blood than she is fair-- And as that robin lingers on the wing, And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air, And loves her for her coldness not the less-- But fain would win her to that warmer sky Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars-- Lo I--a languisher for sunnier climes, Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever Image the tropic deathlessness of love-- Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady, To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!

Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on, As doth the swan upon the yielding water, And with a cheek like alabaster cold!

But as thou didst divide the amorous air Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift That vail of languid lashes to look in At Leary's tempting window--lady! then My heart sprang in beneath that fringed vail, Like an adventurous bird that would escape To some warm chamber from the outer cold!

And there would I delightedly remain, And close that fringed window with a kiss, And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast, Be prisoner forever!