The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 83

"How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy soft and pearly skin; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest!

Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom!

Whence the rosy hue thou wearest, Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, Clasped her fondly to his side, Gazed on her with look enchanted, While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us, If I not the secret tell!

'Twas a gift I had of Venus,-- Venus who hath loved me well.

"And she told me as she gave it, 'Let not e'er the charm be known, O'er thy person freely lave it, Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis inclosed in yonder casket-- Here behold its golden key; But its name--love, do not ask it, Tell't I may not, e'en to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her, Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her, Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow, Did his fair neck disenc.u.mber From her rounded arms of snow;

Then her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the ebon table groping, Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope, Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, Cakes of his Transparent Soap!

II.

TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving, Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in, Church Extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor!

From my dressing table get thee gone!

Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster?

There again! That cut was to the bone!

Get ye from my sight; I'll believe you're right When my razor cuts the sharping hone!"

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness; But the Augur, eager for his fees, Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness, Press a little harder, if you please.

There! the deed is done!"

Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid: But he wronged the blameless G.o.ds; for hearken!

Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his searching eye Did the priest espy RODGER'S name engraved upon the blade.

REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I saw the curl of his waving lash, And the glance of his knowing eye, And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash, As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig, Or flourish the Stanhope gay, And dream that he looks exceeding big To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still, On the stable-boy's gathering numbers, And the ghost of many a veteran bill Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep, And constables cl.u.s.ter around him, And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep Where their specter eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong, And bid your steed go faster; He does not know as he scrambles along, That he has a fool for his master;

And hurry away on your lonely ride, Nor deign from the mire to save me; I will paddle it stoutly at your side With the tandem that nature gave me!

EVENING.

BY A TAILOR.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom b.u.t.toned it with stars.

Here will I lay me on the velvet gra.s.s, That is like padding to earth's meager ribs, And hold communion with the things about me.

Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid, That binds the skirt of night's descending robe!

The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?

It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with;--but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.

Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water?

O no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our n.o.ble calling.

I well remember, in my early years, When these young hands first closed upon a goose I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors; They had an ancient goose,--it was an heir-loom From some remoter tailor of our race.

It happened I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me,--oh, most fearfully!

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.

Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel With all around me;--I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle,--and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.

The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness.

But this unnatural posture of my legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

PHAETHON; OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

JOHN G. SAXX

DAN PHAETHON--so the histories run-- Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the SUN; Or rather of PHOEBUS--but as to his mother, Genealogists make a deuce of a pother, Some going for one, and some for another!

For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer, This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA!

Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begun To elevate funds and depreciate fun, Drove a very fast coach by the name of "THE SUN;"

Running, they say, Trips every day (On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way).

And lighted up with a famous array Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display, And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay."

With never a fare, and nothing to pay!