The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCap and GownThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Cap and GownCompiler: Frederic Lawrence KnowlesRelease date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #10596]Most recently updated: December 20, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Afra Ullah, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAP AND GOWN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Cap and GownCompiler: Frederic Lawrence KnowlesRelease date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #10596]Most recently updated: December 20, 2020Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Afra Ullah, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders
Title: Cap and Gown
Compiler: Frederic Lawrence Knowles
Compiler: Frederic Lawrence Knowles
Release date: January 1, 2004 [eBook #10596]Most recently updated: December 20, 2020
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Afra Ullah, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAP AND GOWN ***
Produced by Afra Ullah, Carol David and PG Distributed Proofreaders
A Treasury of College Verse
Selected by
Frederic Lawrence Knowles
_Editor of "The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics," etc.
1897
Frances James Child,
In "Cap and Gown" you look in vainFor epic or heroic strain.Not ours to scale the heights sublime,Which hardly masters dare to climb;We only sing of youth and joy,And love,—the credo of the boy!
The gay verses which celebrate undergraduate life must not be taken too seriously. They seldom pretend to the dignity of poetry. College verse, if I understand it, is verse suited to the period and point of view of undergraduate days. Light, graceful, humorous, sparkling,—this it should be for the most part; serious sometimes, it is true,—for young men and women about to take upon themselves the responsibilities of mature life are at heart by no means frivolous, but touching the note of grief, if at all, almost as though by accident. Life is often sad enough in the after-years, and for the period of sorrow, sad verse may be in place. Happy they who have not yet traded cap and bells (never far hidden under cap and gown) for the
"Sable stole of cypress lawn."
Happier still if they never need make such a sorry exchange.
Yes, like all sound art, college verse must, above all else, be honest. Let us not say, however, that the thoughtful moods of young men and women may not sincerely be set to the music of verse. One department in this collection bears the name "In Serious Mood," and its sentiment rings as true as that of any other.
In looking over very many undergraduate papers, I have been struck with several facts. I will give them for what they are worth, leaving their explanation to others. First, there seems to be a general fondness for the sonnet, and a very general lack of success in writing it. Second, the French forms of light verse are exceedingly popular—particularly the rondeau, ballade, and triolet. These, more easily lending themselves to gay moods than does the sonnet, are written with much greater success. Triolets are perhaps least often, rondeaus most often, successful. Third, purely sentimental verse is little written in women's colleges, its place being taken by poetry of nature or of reflection. Oddly enough, when itisattempted, the writer usually fancies herself the lover, and describes feminine, not masculine, beauty. College girls show possibly more maturity of reflective power than do their brothers, but they are notably weaker in the sense of humor. Fourth, amongst so much merely graceful verse, there are not wanting touches here and there of genuine poetry. I shall be disappointed if the reader does not discover many such in this little book.
While I have confined myself, for the most part, to verse printed in the college publications of the past five years, I have overstepped this limit in a few instances. None of the poems in the present book, however, were included in the first series published in 1892.
Thanks are due Messrs. Andrus & Church, of Ithaca, N.Y., for their generous loan of bound files of theCornell Era, to the assistant librarian of Harvard University for numerous courtesies, and to the editors of many college papers, without whose kind cooperation the second series of "Cap and Gown" would have been impossible.
AMHERST COLLEGEAmherst Literary Monthly, The.
BALTIMORE, WOMAN'S COLLEGE OFKalends, The.
BOWDOIN COLLEGEBowdoin Orient, The.Bowdoin Quill, The.
BROWN UNIVERSITYBrown Magazine, The.Brunonian, The.
BRYN MAWR COLLEGEBryn Mawr Lantern, The.
CALIFORNIA UNIVERSITYUniversity of California Magazine.
CHICAGO UNIVERSITYUniversity of Chicago Weekly, The.
COLGATE UNIVERSITYMadisonensis.
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITYColumbia Literary Monthly, The.Columbia Spectator, The.Morningside, The.
CORNELL UNIVERSITYCornell Era, The.Cornell Magazine, The.
DARTMOUTH COLLEGEDartmouth Literary Monthly, The.Dartmouth Lyrics, 16mo, 1893.
HAMILTON COLLEGEHamilton Literary Monthly, The.
HARVARD UNIVERSITYHarvard Advocate, The.Harvard Lampoon, The.Harvard Monthly, The.
KANSAS, UNIVERSITY OFKansas University Weekly.
LEHIGH UNIVERSITYLehigh Burr, The.
LELAND STANFORD UNIVERSITYPalo Alto, The.Sequoia.Stanford Quad, TheFour-Leaved Clover: Stanford Rhymes,16mo, 1896.
MASS. INSTITUTE OFTECHNOLOGYTech, The.
MICHIGAN UNIVERSITYInlander, The.Wrinkle, The
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGEMount Holyoke, The
NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITYSyllabus, The.
OHIO STATE UNIVERSITYMakio, The.
PENNSYLVANIA, UNIVERSITY OFRed and Blue.
PRINCETON UNIVERSITYNassau Literary Monthly.
ROCHESTER, UNIVERSITY OFCampus, The.
SMITH COLLEGESmith College Monthly.
SYRACUSE UNIVERSITYUniversity Herald.
TEXAS, UNIVERSITY OFUniversity of Texas Magazine.
TRINITY COLLEGETrinity Tablet, The.
TUFTS COLLEGETuftonian, The.
UNION COLLEGEConcordiensis, The.Garnet, The.Parthenon, The.
VANDERBILT UNIVERSITYVanderbilt Observer, The.
VASSAR COLLEGEVassar Miscellany, The.
VIRGINIA, UNIVERSITY OFVirginia University Magazine.
WELLESLEY COLLEGEWellesley Magazine, The.Wellesley Lyrics, 16mo, 1894.
WELLS COLLEGECardinal, The.
WESLEYAN UNIVERSITYWesleyan Argus, The.Wesleyan Literary Monthly, The.Olla Podrida, The.Wesleyan Verse, 16mo, 1894.
WESTERN RESERVE UNIVERSITYCollege Folio, The.
WILLIAMS COLLEGEWilliams Literary Monthly, The.Williams Weekly, The.
WISCONSIN, UNIVERSITY OFBadger, The.Wisconsin Aegis.
YALE UNIVERSITYYale Courant, The.Yale Literary Magazine, The.Yale Record, The.
* * * * *
~Soap-Bubbles.~
As a little child at playBlows upon a pipe of clayBubbles, evanescent, bright,With their iridescent light,So I fling upon the windVerses of the bubble kind.
And my friend with eyes of blueLooks my dainty verses through,Pauses from his books awhile,With an intellectual smile;For my fancy seems as naughtTo this man of deeper thought.
Still I plead as my excuse:"Even bubbles have their use.They are perfect while they live,And their short career may give,As they shimmer, and are flown,Some suggestion for our own.
"Let their beauty, pure and glad,Make another soul less sad,And, as upward they are whirled,Let them show their little world,Floating clouds and perfect sky,Warmly mirrored, ere they die."
HERBERT MULLER HOPKINS.Columbia Literary Monthly.
~Love Laughs.~
"Love laughs at locksmiths," laughs ho! ho!Still Thisbe steals to meet a beau,Naught recks of bolt and bar and night,And father's frown and word despite.As in the days of long ago,In southern heat and northern snowStill twangs the archer's potent bow,And as his flying arrows smite,Love laughs.
Trinity Tablet.
~Where Cupid Dwells.~
Way over the seas, is a far, far land,Where skies are blue and gold;Where ripples break on a silver sand,And sunbeams ne'er grow old;There's a dale where Cupid dwells, they say,And 'tis there that he rests from his frolic play.
Oh, there's many a lass and many a swainThat knows of his shafts made there;For Cupid spares naught of a deep heart-pain.Though love be all his care.And I think he should make a reflection or two,When he rests over there from his play. Don't you?
ROBERT L. MUNGER.Yale Courant.
~To Ruby Lips.~
Two ruby lips are hers; a pairOf eyes a cynic to ensnare,A tinted cheek, a perfect nose,A throat as white as winter's snows,And o'er her brow bright golden hair.
But, though she's everything that's fair,My captured fancy's focused whereA saucy smile suffuses thoseTwo ruby lips.
Why longer wait their sweets to share?We're safe behind the portière.A moment, then, that no one knows—Ah! now she's flown,couleur de rose,With, one might hint (but who would dare?)Tooruby lips.
H.A. RICHMOND.The Tech.
~A Gift.~
My friend holds careless in his palmA glittering stone.He does not know a jewel rareIs all his own.
But in its flashing lights I seeA diamond shine,And though he holds it in his hand,The gem is mine.
ELIZABETH REEVE CUTTER.Smith College Monthly.
~Jacqueminot.~
Are you filled with wonder, Jacqueminot,Do you think me mad that I kiss you so?If a rose could only its thoughts express,I'd find you mocking, I more than guess;And yet if you vow me a fond old fool,Just think if your own fine pulse was coolWhen you lay in her tresses an hour ago,Jacqueminot.
This pale, proud girl, you must understand,Held all my fate in her small white hand,And when I asked her to be my bride,She wanted a day to think—decide;And I asked, if her answer wereno, she'd wearA Marshal Niel to the ball in her hair,But if 'twereyes, she would tell me soBy a Jacqueminot.
My heart found heaven, I had seen my sign,And after the dance I knew her mine,And I plucked you out of her warm, soft hair,As her stately pride stood trembling there,And I felt in the dark for her lips to kiss,And I pressed them close to my own likethis,And I held her cheek to my own cheek—so,Jacqueminot!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~Don't You Wish You Knew!~
Glancing in the moonlight,Gliding in the dark,Down the river slowly,Floats our dainty bark.Sweetly sound two voices,Shadows hide the view;Heard the rushes something?Don't you wish you knew!
Gently sigh the zephyrs,Shine the stars above,Eyes of brighter lustreSpeak of lasting love.Quickly pass the hours,Glides the bark canoe;Heard the rushes something?Don't you wish you knew!
A.H.B.Brunonian.
~Prom-Roses.~
Only a bunch of roses fair,A duster of pink and white,Roses that nod to the music low,The flowers she wore that night.
She tenderly lifts each drooping headThat gracefully tosses there,And the dainty flowers, nestling close,Smile back at the maiden fair.
"How beautiful they are," she said,As she pressed them to her cheek,"Why, the opened petals almost seemAs if they were trying to speak."
I wonder why she cannot hearThe song that the flowers sing,I wonder if she knows or caresFor the message the roses bring.
JAMES P. SAWYER.Yale Record.
~A Lyric.~
Beneath the lilac-tree,With its breathing blooms of white,You waved a parting kiss to meIn the deepening amber light.
Your face is always near,Your tender eyes of brown.I see your form in dreams; I hearThe whisper of your gown.
Once more the lilac-treeWith twilight dew is wet;But, oh, I would that you might beAlive to love me yet.
EDWARD M. HULME.The Palo Alto.
Pallas
You say there's a sameness in my style,You long for the savor of something new,You tell me that love is not worth while,You wish for verse that is strong and true.Well, I will leave the choice to you—Prose or poetry, short or long,Only we'll let this be the cue—Love is excluded from the song.
I'll sing of some old cathedral pile,Where, as we sit in a carved oak pew,The sunlight illumines nave and aisle,And peace seems thrilling us through and through.No? you don't think that will do?How would you like a busy throng,A battle, Elizabeth's retinue?But love is excluded from the song.
A journey, a voyage, a tropic isle,The hush of the forest, the ocean blue,A lament for all that is false and vile,A paean for all that is good and true.Pompadour's fan, or Louis's queue,Mournful or merry, right or wrong.Subjects, you'll find, are not so few,But love is excluded from the song.
Oh! for a song of yourself you sue!Do you think you can trap me? You are wrong.Sing of your eyes and your smile and—Pooh!Love is excluded from the song.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.Columbia Spectator.
~How I Love Her.~
Dear, I'll tell you how I love you—Not by singing sweetly of you—Oh, I love you far too much,For the daintiest rhyme's light touch;No, it needs no language signs,It's written here between the lines,How I love you! You will seeIf you look there, loving me.
C.B. NEWTON.Nassau Literary Monthly.
~Polly.~
She fluttered gaily down the hill—That merry, dimpled lass—She hurried singing down the hill,And then she loitered by the mill,And saw the bubbles pass,Made double in the glassOf the mirror of the water, greeny still.
She heard a sparrow pertly cry,She smelt the new-mown hay,She felt the sunshine in the sky,As lightly she went skipping by,A-down the sunny way—'Twas like a holiday,The keen, expectant sparkle in her eye.
And Cupid's wings were on her feet,As nimbly she ran down;And Cupid's wings were on her feet:For pretty Polly went to meetHer lover in the town.She wore that lilac gownThat made him say—oh, nothing to repeat!
CHARLES W. SHOPE.Harvard Advocate.
~Under the Rose.~
Last night the blush rose clustered,—To-day the rough wind blowsIn showers her broken petals;Last night,—yet no one knows,—I kissed thee, sweetheart, sweetheart,Under the rose!
Last night my fond hope blossomed,—To-day December snowsDrift deep and cold above it;To-day,—ah! no one knows,—My heart breaks, sweetheart, sweetheart,Under the rose!
CATHERINE Y. GLEN.Mount Holyoke.
[Illustration: MT. HOLYOKE GIRL.]
~A Bit of Human Nature.~
'Tis only a pair of woman's eyes,So long-lashed, soft, and brown,Half hiding the light that in them lies,As dreamily looking down.
'Tis only the dainty curve of a lip,Half full, half clear defined,And the shell-like pink of a finger-tip,And a figure half reclined.
'Tis only a coil of rich, dark hair,With sunlight sifted through,And a truant curl just here and there,And a knot of ribbon blue.
'Tis only the wave of a feather fan,That ruffles the creamy lace,Loose gathered about the bosom fair,By rhinestones held in place.
'Tis only the toe of a high-heeled shoe,With the glimpse of a color above—A stocking tinted a faint sky-blue,The shade that lovers love.
'Tis only a woman—a woman, that's all,And, as only a woman can,Bringing a heart to her beck and callBy waving her feather fan.
'Tis only a woman, and I—'twere bestTo forget that waving fan.She only a woman—you know the rest?But I am only a man.
CHARLES WASHINGTON COLEMAN.Virginia University Magazine.
~Her Little Glove.~
Her little glove, I dare aver,Would set your pulses all astir;It hides a something safe from sightSo soft and warm, so small and white,A cynic would turn flatterer!
Could Pegasus have better spur?'Twould almost cause a saint to err—A Puritan to grow polite—Her little glove.
'Twill satisfy a connoisseur,This dainty thing of lavender;And when it clasps her fingers tightI think—I wonder if it's right—That somehow—well—I wishIwereHer little glove.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Wesleyan Verse.
~Skating Hath Charms.~
So cold was the night,And her cheeks were cold, too,Though it wasn't quite right,So cold was the night,And so sad was her plight,That I—well, wouldn't you?So cold was the night,And her cheeks were cold, too.
H.H.Amherst Literary Monthly.
~The Portrait.~
Pearls and patches, powder and paint,This was her grandmother years ago.Gown and coiffure so strange and quaint,Features just lacking the prim of the saint,From the mischievous dimple that lurks below;High-heeled slippers and satin bow,Red lips mocking the heart's constraint,Free from passion, devoid of taint—This was her grandmother years ago.
Straight and slender, gallant and tall.Ah, how he loved her, years ago!Just so she looked at that last dim ball,When, in a niche of the dusk old hall,They whispered together soft and low.She whispered "yes," but fate answered "no:"Some one listened and told it all,And the horses might wait by the garden wall,But none came to answer him, years ago.
So, standing, fresh as the rose on her breast,Smiling down on me here below,Never a care on her brow impressed,Never the dream of a thought confessedOf all the weariness and the woe,Hearts would break were time not so slow.Swept are life's chambers; comes the new guest.Old love, or new love—which was the best?For this was her grandmother years ago.
Southern Collegian.
~The Convert.~
I wrote lots of trash about Cupid,And the telling bewitchment of curls,And that men were excessively stupidTo be madly devoted to girls.I remarked that true love was unstable,As compared with position or pelf,'Till one day I met you, little Mabel,And learned what it felt like, myself!
Don't read all the things I have writtenWhen I knew that my heart was my own,But since I confess I am smitten,Read these little verses alone.And sincerely I trust I'll be ableTo convince you, you sly little elf,To grant me your heart, little Mabel,And learn what it feels like yourself!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.Columbia Literary Monthly.
~A Thief's Apology.~
I stole a kiss!—What could I do?Before the door we stood, we two,About to say a plain good-by;She seemed so innocent and shy,But what she thought, I thought I knew.
Ah, swift the blissful moments flew,And when at last I said adieu(Perhaps you think me bold), but I—I stole a kiss.
The tale is told; perhaps it's true,Perhaps it was a deed to rue;But when that look came in her eyeI thought she wished to have me try—I don't know how 'twould been with you—Istole a kiss.
ROBERT PORTER ST. JOHN.Amherst Literary Monthly.
~A Ballad of Dorothy.~
It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?"From morn to even fall,There's not a lad on Cowslip FarmWho joins not in the call.It's Dolly here and Dolly there,Where can the maiden be?No wench in all the countryside'sSo fine as Dorothy.
With tucked-up gown and shining pail,Before the day is bright,Down dewy lanes she singing goesAmong the hawthorns white.Perchance her roses need her care,She tends them faithfully.There's not a rose in all the worldAs fresh and sweet as she!
With morning sunshine in her hairA-churning Dolly stands:Oh, happy chum, I envy it,Held close between her hands;And when the crescent moon hangs brightAthwart the soft night sky,Down shady paths we strolling go,Just Dorothy and I.
As true of heart as sweet of face,With gay and girlish air,The painted belles of citydomAre not a whit as fair.Come Michaelmas the parish chimesWill ring out merrily.Who is the bride I lead to church?Why, who but Dorothy?
ARTHUR KETCHUM.Williams Literary Monthly.
~A Cup and Saucer Episode.~
'Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep,I won't deny I felt intoxication;For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peepOver the cup, I plunged in dissipation.
She raised her cup, and I raised also mine;She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?"Our eyes met o'er the rims—it seemed like wine,So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady."
So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good.I had of that far more than my fair rations.Yet served it merely as an interludeBetween the music of the cup flirtations.
And then to have her say 'twas all my fault!I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup.I noticed, though, she had not called the haltUntil the pot was empty, every sup.
BERT ROSS.Harvard Advocate.
~Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady.~
"The burn runs swiftly, my dainty lass,And its foam-wreathed stones are mossy,An I carry ye ower to yonder shoreYe will na think me saucy?"
"I thank ye, sir, but a Scottish lassRecks not of a little wetting.Will ye stand aside, sir? I can na bide, sir.The sun o' the gloamin's setting."
"Yet stay, my pretty, the stepping-stonesAre a bridge o' my are hands' making.An ye pay no toll I maun be so bold—The sweeter a kiss for taking."
"Farewell, ye braw young Highlander.Tho' first ye sought to mask it:Unceevil 'tis to steal a kiss.But muckle waur to ask it."
CHARLES POTTER HINE.Yale Literary Magazine.
~A Foreign Tongue.~
When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue,Their words are not like ours,But full of meanings like the throb of flowersYet in the earth, unborn. I think the snowFeels the mysterious passage and the flowOf inarticulate streams that surge below.And it is easy learning for the young;When lovers talk, they talk a foreign tongue.
ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.Smith College Monthly.
~Ye Gold-Headed Cane.~
It stands in the corner yet, stately and tall,With a top that once shone like the sun.It whispers of muster-field, playhouse, and ball,Of gallantries, courtship, and fun.It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day,He would swear it was deucedly plain,But the halos of memory crown its decay—My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell how a face in a circling calashGrew red as the poppies she wore,When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash.And escorted her home to her door.How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a buck!"As they glared at the fortunate swain,And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck—My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig,When, from under a broad scuttle hat,The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big,And—but no! would it dare tell ofthat?Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquetteHow many a suitor was slain!There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they metWith the gleam of his gold-headed cane.
Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk!They scent these old halls even yet;I can still see the dancers as down through the duskThey glide in the grave minuet.The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride,Long, long in the chest have they lain;Let us shake out the camphor and place them besideMy grandfather's gold-headed cane.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~Hours.~
Matchless, melting eyes of brown,This is but a cheerless town;You should beam 'neath warmer skies,Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Yours should be a land of flowers,Perfumed air and sunny hours;Eastern fires within you rise,Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,Burning mystically bright,Prithee here no longer stay,You will burn my heart away.
W.Hamilton Literary Monthly.
~A Fickle Heart.~
A fickle heart! Let subtler poets singOf changeless love and all that kind of thing,Of hearts in which a passion never dies—Myheart's as fickle as the summer skiesAcross whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.
Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring.I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string,Though each unto my questioning touch repliesA fickle heart.
So, 'twixt some thirty loves I'm wavering,To each the same unstable vows I fling,Reading the first glad gleam of love's surpriseIn thirty pair of brown and azure eyes,Finding in all the same thought answering;A fickle heart.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.Columbia Spectator.
~My Lady goes to the Play.~
With the link-boys running on beforeTo light her on her way,A-lounging in her sedan goesBelinda to the play.
In patch and powder, puff and frill,From satin shoe to hair,Of all the maids in London townI wot there's none so fair!
From Mayfair down along the StrandTo Covent Garden's light,Where Master David Garrick actsIn a new rôle to-night,
The swinging sedan takes its way,And with expectant airBelinda fans, and wonders whoTo-night there will be there.
Sir Charles, perhaps, or, happy thought,Flushing thro' her powder,He might come in—beneath her staysShe feels her heart beat louder.
The place, at last! The flunkies setTheir dainty burden down,"Lud, what a crowd!" My Lady frownsAnd gathers up her gown.
Alack for human lovelinessAnd for its little span!Where's Belinda? Here, quite fresh,Are still her gown and fan!
ARTHUR KETCHUM.Williams Literary Monthly.
~Confession and Avoidance.~
They say that you're a flirt at best,And warn me to beware: your glancesWould make, they say, a treach'rous testBy which to gauge a fellow's chances.And yet—I love you so! a throngOf passions bid me speak to-day.Ah! darling, tell me they are wrong!Are you as heartless as they say?
Am I? well, so I have been told,Though never yet have I confessed it;But you, sir, seem so very boldThat I—well, I admit you've guessed it.Alas! 'tis true I'm heartless; yes,They're right, but only right in part;The reason, dear, is—can't you guess?Because—because you have my heart.
JOHN ALAN HAMILTON.Cornell Magazine.
~Clarissa Laughs.~
Clarissa laughs. I plead in vain,She hears my suit with sweet disdain,When I remind her—speaking low—That once she did not flout me so,She asks me—do I think 'twill rain?Then when in anger I am fainTo leave her, swear I've naught to gainBy staying, save th'increase of woe,Clarissa laughs.
Yet when I beg of her to deignTo answer, give it joy or pain,She smiles. So then I cannot go,For with her smiles my love doth grow.Yet when I press my suit again,Clarissa laughs.
RUTH PARSONS MILNE.Smith College Monthly.
~'Mid the Roses.~
'Mid the roses she is standing,In her garden, waiting there;Roses all about her glowing,Roses shining in her hair.
May I, dare I, ask the questionWhich my heart has asked before?Then I falter, "Can you love me,Darling?" I can say no more.
Now the petals fall more slowly:One has lodged upon her dress;Now her eyes she raises gently;Meeting mine, they answer "Yes."
F.T. GEROULD.Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
~A Society Martyr.~
Rustling billows of silk 'neath the foam of old lace,A half-languid smile upon each listless face,—A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,—A medley of modern and Grecian maids.Such clatter and clinkOne scarcely can thinkTill he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,—For how can a bachelor be at his easeWith such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?
Fair Phyllis's gold lashes demurely cast down,Her face in sweet doubt 'twixt a smile and a frown,—A venturesome rosebud o'ertopping the restNow lies all a-quiver upon her white breast,The curves of her neckMan's vow often wreck,—She has the whole world at her call and her beck.So how can a bachelor be at his easeWith such variant emotions at afternoon teas?
Behind sheltering palms, safe from gossips' sharp gaze,Is acted in mime one of life's dearest plays,—Sweet Bessie's brown eyes raised beseechingly up,Her lips just released from the kiss of her cup,And Fred, I much fear,From small sounds that I hear,Is as bold as the rim of her cup,—and as near,—And how can a bachelor be at his easeWith such sights and such sounds at our afternoon teas?
Shrewd maters watch Phyllis and Bessie and Fred,—Each smile and each look and each toss of the head,—And wonder and ponder and figure and scheme,While fortune and fashion 'gainst love tip the beam.For Bessie's dark locksAnd Phyllis's smart frocksAre but snares to entrap the society fox.Pray, how can a bachelor be at his easeWith such artful devices at afternoon teas?
JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY.Brown Magazine.
~O Mores!~
Cupid's bow is lying broken,Fallen on the ground,And his arrows all with bluntedPoints are strewn around.For to reach our modern heartsPowerless are the blind god's darts,From his rosy shoulders stripped;Since, to pierce the breasts so cold,Shafts must always be of gold,Arrows must be diamond-tipped.
ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS.Brunonian.
~Which?~
Blonde or brunette? Shall Ethel fair,My winter girl, with golden hair,Or Maud, whose dark brown eyes bewitch,—My summer girl,—now govern?Which?
Shall cold Bostonianism rule?Shall Love teach Browning in his school?Or shall coy glances, passion-rich,Compel my fond allegiance?Which?
And yet the solving's really clear.For winter's gone and summer's here.I want no statue in a niche,So Cupid says, "Let Maud be'Which!'"
W.C. NICHOLS.Harvard Lampoon.
~Then and Now.~
When first we met she was three feet high,And three, I think, was her age as well,A touch of the heaven was in her eye;I cannot say she was very shy,(As you'll see by her actions by and by),But the way I behaved I blush to tell.
We met at a party, on the stair;She was decked in ribbons and silk galore,She smiled with a most bewitching air,And then, I'm afraid, I pulled her hair.You know you can't expect savoir-faireOf a cavalier of the age of four!
She only laughed with her subtle charm,And took it more sweetly than you'd have believed,But later she really took alarm—When she wanted to kiss me I pinched her arm,And she ran away to escape from harm;At which, no doubt, I was much relieved.
She did not offer to kiss again;I saw her go off with another beau.She pretended to hold up her ten-inch train,And whispered low to her new-found swain.I was eating ice-cream with might and main,—And that was some seventeen years ago.
I see her to-night on the winding stair,She replies with a smile to my sober bow;The palms lean lovingly toward her hair,And her foot keeps time to a distant air.I'm afraid she does not recall or care—She does not offer to kiss me now!
Heigho! What a sad, what a sweet affair,What a curious mixture life seems to be!I am fast in the net of love, and there,With another man on the winding stair,Is the girl I love,—and I pulled her hairWhen she wanted a kiss at the age of three!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.Columbia Spectator.
~A Toast.~
Clink, clink,Fill up your glasses.Drink, drink,Drink to the lasses.Eyes that are blue,Lips that are sweet,Hearts that are true,Figures petite.Clink, clink,Fill up your glasses.Drink, drink,Drink to the lasses.Drink, for there's nothing so sweet as a maid is;Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.
HENRY MORGAN STONE.Brunonian.
~A Bit of Lace.~
It lay upon a pillow white,The framework of a beauteous sightWherein its mistress laid a brightEcstatic face,And when each night it proudly boreHer wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or"It seemed a very Heaven forThe bit of lace.
But lace can from a pillow partAnd by a touch, of cunning artAdorn the casket of the heart,Where every grace,Half hidden by its witching fold,Seeks to betray a charm untold—How envies each admirer boldThe bit of lace!
Still maidens' mind and garments change,And so there comes a new exchange;The real Valenciennes finds a strangeNew resting-place,Where tiny feet and ankles hide,And where but for a shoe untiedNo human eye had e'er espiedThe bit of lace.
A crowded street, a sudden scare,A little rush, a lengthy tear,A snowy skirt that needs repair,Decides the case.And what each morn her footman missedHung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,And ardent lovers fondly kissedThe bit of lace.
* * * * *
This tale is incomplete, I know,But where else could the traveller go?Ah, it was fifty years agoAll this took place.And nodding, in her noonday nap,Secure from every sad mishap,I see in Grandma's dainty capThe bit of lace.
Red and Blue.
~A Song to Her.~
A song to a maid with eyes like stars;Lad, you can sing it.Any old tune to trip the bars,Any old voice to ring it;Love will wend it away to her;Love will mend it and pray to her;Love with his love will wing it.
A song to a maid, a song of songsBorn in the singingEver, oh! ever to love belongs;Ringing, ringing, ringing!Holly berry, a winter theme,Bursting cherry, a summer's dream,Love on love's pinions winging.
Wrinkle.
~Circe.~
Merry smiles and entrancing eyes,Words that are light as passing air.Lips that never disown disguise,Hearts that endeavor hearts to snare,Tongues that know not the way to spare,Babbling on in a thoughtless whirl;Would-be worshippers, O beware!These are the ways of the modern girl.
Faces fickle as April skies,Eyes where Cupid has made his lair;When they tempt you to idolize,Then for a broken heart prepare.What does she care for your despair,Striving peace from your life to hurl?Would-be worshippers, O take care!These are the ways of the modern girl.
Ribbons and laces, smiles and sighs,A knot of vermilion in her hair,Glances where veiled deception lies,A kiss, perchance, on the winding stair,Exquisite gowns and roses rare,Shimmer of silver, gloss of pearl—Where is the heart, O woman, where?These are the ways of the modern girl.
Fashion and pique her hours share,Nature and truth their standards furl,Fair as fickle, and false as fair,These are the ways of the modern girl.
Columbia Spectator.
~A Wish.~
Cupid laughs, nor seems to careHow his shafts are wont to harrow.Ah! that I could unaware,Wound him with his golden arrow.
A.Columbia Spectator.
~To Phyllis.~
I said your beauty shamed the rose's blush;You thought the simile was trite, untrue;But, oh, I saw each rose for pleasure flushTo hear itself compared, dear heart, to you!
ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE.Columbia Spectator.
~L'Amour, L'Amour.~
We catch the fleeting perfume of rosesAs the evening closes the golden day,And the rhythmic beating of waves in motionComes from the ocean a mile away;In the west is dying the sunset's splendor,And twilight tender enfolds the land;Where the tide is flying a-down the river,And the grasses quiver, we silent stand.
In your radiant eyes the sun unknowingHas left his glowing to deeper glow,And your tender sighs sound far more sweetlyThan the winds that fleetly and blithely blowAnd first all shyly your small hand lingersWith trembling fingers within my own,The blushes slyly and swiftly starting,And then departing like rose-leaves blown.
Alas, the envious time is fleeting,But your heart is beating in time with mine,And Cupid's rhyme rings louder—clearer,As I draw you nearer, my love divine!In the twilight dim we have found love's tether,And are linked together, no more to part;While the white stars swing in a maze of glory,To hear the story that bares your heart.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.Columbia Spectator.
~Lines on a Ring.~
Oh, precious drop of crystal dew,Set in a tiny band of gold,Which doth within its little graspA blue-veined finger softly hold—Thou failest if thy radiant raysAre seeking—bold attempt 'twould be!—To show a fraction of the loveThat beams from Edith's eyes on me.
LOREN M. LUKE.Nassau Literary Monthly.
~A Memory.~
Shadows up the hillside creeping,Gold in western sky,Meadow-brook beneath us keepingDreamy lullaby.
Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming—Gems in dark robes caught—Everything about us seemingWith hidden meaning fraught.
Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning,Challenge if I dare,Vie with amorous sunbeams burningO'er her face and hair.
But a truce to idle musing—That was long ago.Was she gracious or refusing?You may never know.
Winter's snows those fields are hiding'Neath a robe of white,For another she is bidingTryst of love to-night.
I was only glancing overA book beloved of yore,When a sprig of mountain cloverFluttered to the floor.
IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
[Illustration: A WESLEYAN GIRL.]
~The Soul's Kiss.~
Not your sweet, red lips, dear,Tremulous with sighs,Lest their passion dull love's rapture;Kiss me with your eyes.
Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear,At the least touch flies,Even lips may brush to dimness;Kiss me with your eyes.
Pain within the bliss, dear,Of those soft curves lies;Only love the soul's light carries;Kiss me with your eyes.
MAUD THOMPSON.Wellesley Magazine.
~A Portrait.~
A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed;A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown,Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crownWreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breastA cluster; lips still smiling at some jestJust uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frownUpon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brownWhere shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.
Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame,Between that starched old Bishop and the dameIn awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ireAnd trip a minuet. You will not?—Fie!Those mocking lips half make me wish that I,Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.
Trinity Tablet.
~A Picture.~
On spinet old, Clarissa playsThe melodies of by-gone days.Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune,The bars of stately rigadoon.With head bent down to scan each note,A crimson ribbon round her throat,The very birds to sing forgetAs some old-fashioned minuetClarissa plays.
King George long since has passed away,And minuets have had their day.Within a hidden attic nookCovered with dust, her music-book.Gone are the keys her fingers pressed.The bunch of roses at her breast.But still, unmindful of time's flight,With face so fair and hands so white,Clarissa plays.
EDWARD B. REED.Yale Literary Magazine.
~Tildy in the Choir.~
Lines that ripple, notes that dance,Foreign measures brought from France,Reaching with a careless easeFrom high C to—where you please,Clever, frivolous, and gay—These will answer in their way;But that tune of long ago—Stately, solemn, somewhat slow(Dear "Old Hundred"—that's the air)—Will outrank them anywhere;Once it breathed a seraph's fire.(Tildy sang it in the choir.)
How she stood up straight and tall!Ah! again I see it all;Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffedAll the genial country's wealthOf large cheer and perfect health,Gown—well, yes—old-fashioned quite,Youwould call it "just a fright,"But I love that quaint attire.(Tildy wore it in the choir.)
How we sang—forIwas there,Occupied a singer's chairNext to—well, no prouder manEver lifts the bass, nor can,Sometimes held the self-same book,(How my nervous fingers shook!)Sometimes—wretch—while still the airEchoed to the parson's prayer,I would whisper in her earWhat she could not help but hear.Once, I told her my desire.(Tildy promised in the choir.)
Well, those days are past, and nowCome gray hairs, and yet somehowI can't think those years have fled—Still those roadways know my tread,Still I climb that old pine stair,Sit upon the stiff-backed chair,Stealing glances toward my leftTill her eyes repay the theft;Death's a dream and Time's a liar—Tildy still is in the choir.
Come, Matilda number two,_Fin de siècle _maiden you!Wonder if you'd like to seeHer I loved in fifty-three?Yes? All right, then go and findMother's picture—"Papa!"—Mind!She and I were married. YouWere our youngest. Now you, too,Raise the same old anthems tillAll the church is hushed and stillWith a single soul to hear.Do I flatter? Ah, my dear,Time has brought my last desire—Tildy stillisin the choir!
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~A Memory.~
We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow,Alone on the winding stair,And the distant strains of a waltz fell lowOn the fragrance-laden air.I caught from her lips a murmured "yes,"And the stately palms amidThere came a blissful, sweet caress—I shouldn't have—but I did!
I might forget that joyous night,As the months slip swiftly by;I might forget the gentle lightThat shone in her hazel eye;But I can't forget that whispered "yes"That came the palms amid,I can't forget that one caress—I shouldn't have—but I did!
GUY WETMORE CARRYLColumbia Spectator.
~The American Girl.~
The German may sing of his rosy-cheeked lass,The French of his brilliant-eyed pearl;But ever the theme of my praises shall beThe laughing American girl,Yes, the jolly American girl.
She laughs at her sorrows, she laughs at her joys,She laughs at Dame Fortune's mad whirl;And laughing will meet all her troubles in life,The laughing American girl,Yes, the joyous American girl.
You say she can't love if she laughs all the time?A laugh at your logic she'll hurl;She loves while she laughs and she laughs while she loves,The laughing American girl,Oh, the laughing American girl!
S.F.P.Campus.
~Ballade of Justification.~
A jingle of bells and a crunch of snow,Skies that are clear as the month of May,Winds that merrily, briskly blow,A pretty girl and a cozy sleigh,Eyes that are bright and laughter gay,All that favors Dan Cupid's art;I was but twenty. What can you sayIf I confess I lost my heart?
What if I answered in whispers low,Begged that she would not say me nay,Asked if my love she did not know,What if I did? Who blames me, pray?Suppose she blushed. 'Tis the proper wayFor lovely maidens to play their part.Does it seem too much for a blush to payIf I confess I lost my heart?
What if I drove extremely slow,Was there not cause enough to stay?Such opportunities do not growRight in one's pathway every day;Cupid I dared not disobey,If he saw fit to cast his dart;Is it a thing to cause dismayIf I confess I lost my heart?
What if I kissed her? Jealous theyWho scoff at buyers in true love's mart.Who can my sound good sense gainsayIf I confess I lost my heart?
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.Columbia Spectator.
~Perdita.~
'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,But it once belonged to Grace.The goody didn't know that, I suppose—'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,No longer sweet to the eye or nose,So she tossed it out from the Dresden vase.—'Twas only a tiny, withered rose,But it once belonged to Grace.
Harvard Advocate.
~Strategy.~
Some, Cupid kills with arrows,Some, with traps;But this spring the little rascalFound, perhaps,That he needed both to slay me;So he laid a cunning snareOn the hillside, and he hid itIn a lot of maidenhair;And I doubt not he is laughingAt the joke,For he made his arrows out ofPoison-oak.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.Sequoia.
~Canoe Song.~
Dip! Dip! Softly slipDown the river shining wide,Dim and far the dark banks are;Life is love and naught beside.Onward, drifting with the tide.
Drip, drip, from paddle tipMyriad ripples swirl and swoon;Shiv'ring 'mid the ruddy stars,Mirrored in the deep lagoon,Faintly floats the mummied moon.
Soft, soft, high aloft,—Ever thus till time is done,—Worlds will die; may thou and IGlide beneath a gentler sun,Young as now and ever one.
E. FRÈRE CHAMPNEY.Harvard Advocate.
~A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.~
When ye Crocuss shews his heade& ye Wyndes of Marche have flede,Springe doth come, and happylyeThen I thinke ofDorothy.
Haycockes fragrante in ye sunGive me reste when taskes are done:Summer's here, & merrylyeThen I dreame ofDorothy.
Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne;Cyder, ye cool Tankard in;Autumn's come. Righte jollylyeThen I drinke toDorothy.
When ye Northe Wynde sweeps ye snowe& Icyclles hange all belowe,Then, for soothe, Olde Winter, heLetts me dance withDorothy!
ARTHUR CHENEY TRAIN.Harvard Advocate.
~The Prof.'s Little Girl.~
She comes to the Quad when her Ladyship pleases,And loiters at will in the sun and the shade;As free from the burden of work as the breezesThat play with the bamboo is this little maid.The tongues of the bells, as they beat out the morning,Like mad in their echoing cases may whirlTill they weary of calling her,—all their sharp warningIs lost on the ear of the prof's little girl.
With a scarred-over heart that is old in the knowledgeOf all the manoeuvres and snares of the Hall,Grown wary of traps in its four years at college,And able at last to keep clear of them all,—Oh, what am I doing away from my classesWith a little blue eye and a brown little curl?Ah me! fast again, and each precious hour passesIn slavery sweet to the prof's little girl.
She makes me a horse, and I mind her direction,Though it takes me o'er many a Faculty green;I'm pledged to the cause of her pussy's protectionFrom ghouls of the Lab and the horrors they mean;I pose as the sire of a draggled rag dollyWho owns the astonishing title of Pearl;—And I have forgotten that all this is folly,So potent the charm of the prof's little girl!
Yet, spite of each sacrifice made to impress her,She smiles on my rival. Oh, vengeance I'd gain!But he wears the same name as my major professor,And so in his graces I have to remain;And when she trots off with this juvenile lover,Leaving me and the cat and the doll in a whirl,It's pitiful truly for us to discoverThe signs of her sex in the prof's little girl.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD.Four-Leaved Clover.
~Gertrude.~
Fair Gertrude lives at Farmington,Perhaps you've seen her there;Her eyes delight in laughing light,Let gods describe her hair;Her figure—well, grave Juno ne'erHad half the supple graceOf Gertrude fair of Farmington—Perhaps you know that place?
Beneath her lips there gleam two rowsOf greed-inspiring pearls;Such rows of teeth the gods bequeathTo but their choicest girls.For other things at FarmingtonI do not care a rap,Although it is a lovely place—I've seen it (on the map).
I would the gods had given meSome mild poetic skill;In Gertrude's praise I'd sing for days,And volumes I could fill.Perhaps you think I love this maid—In sooth perhaps I do;Well, If I did, I'd tell her—But, by Jove, I'd not tellyou.
J.H. ScrantonYale Record.
~My Politics.~
I am for gold—her golden hairWhose mesh my soul entrances;Caressing this, what do I careFor national finances?
For silver, too—those silver tonesThat with her laughter rise;This wealth, thank God. no law or thronesCan e'er demonetize.
G.W. PIERCE.University of Texas Magazine.
~The Summer Girl.~
A half-reclining formIn a "sleepy-hollow" chair,A cloud of curls that stormAbout her beauty fair,Two laughing eyes that tellA shyly answered "Yes."A dainty hand to—well,Say simply to caress.
An airy little spriteIn a billowy flood of lace,Which flutters in its flightIn the galop's tripping grace.And, oh, the broken heartsWhich follow the rapturous whirl!Oh, the Redfern gown, and the artsOf the annual summer girl!
EDWIN OSGOOD GROVER.Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
~Love's Token.~
The frost and snow of mistletoe,The warmth of holly berry,These I combine, O lady mine,To make thy yule-tide merry.And shouldst thou learn, sweet, to returnMy love, nor deem it folly,Twined in thy hair the snow fruit wear,And on thy breast the holly.
ALICE R. TAGGART.Vassar Miscellany.
~A Passing Song.~
Ah, only love I have ever known,Ah, only love I shall ever know,The careless hours of youth have flownAnd the light-hearted past to the winds is thrown,And faster and faster the hours go.
To your heart and mine there's a secret lyingWhile the spring's breath thrills in the air of May,While life seems ever to be defyingThe flight of time and the thought of dying,And the great world runs on its careless way.
Yet one dear thought in my heart is restingAs I face the path I must tread ere long,When wearied with life's unending questing,Its tawdry joys and its idle jesting,I shall pass to the midst of the missing throng.
That here I have known your heart's dear thrilling,Your helping hand and your watchful eye,My life with your tender love fulfilling.I know but this, and am strangely willingTo learn your love and in learning—die.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.Columbia Spectator.