AN IVORY MINIATURE.
When State Street homes were stately still;When out of town was Murray Hill;In late-deceased “old times”Of vast, embowering bonnet-shapes,And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes,And florid annual-rhymes,He owned a small suburban seatWhere now you see a modern street,A monochrome of brown;The sad “brown-brown” of Dante’s dreams,A twilight turned to stone, that seemsTo weight our city down.Through leafy chestnuts whitely showedThe pillared front of his abode:A garden girt it ’round,Where pungent box did trim encloseThe marigold and cabbage-rose,And “pi’ny” heavy-crowned.Yea, whatso sweets, the changing year’s,He most affected. Gone: but here’sHis face who loved them so.Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild;A cheek clear-hued as cheek of child;Sleek head, a sphere of snow.His mouth was pious, and his nosePatrician; with which mould there goesA disaffected view.In those sublime, be-oratored,Spread-eagle days, his soul deploredSomuchred-white-and-blue!In umber ink, with S’s long,He left behind him censure strongIn stiffest phrases clothed;But Time—a pleasant jest enough!—Has turned the tory leaves to buff,The liberal hue he loathed.Of many a gentle deed he madeBrief simple record. Never fadeThose everlasting-flowersThat spring up wild by good men’s walks;Opinions wither on their stalks,And sere grow Fashion’s bowers.Erect, be-frilled, in neckcloth tall,His semblance sits, removed from allOur needs and noises new;Released from all the rent we payAs tenants of the large To-day,Cool, in a background blue.And he, beneath a cherub chipped,Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped,Sleeps calm where TrinityPoints finger dark to clouds that fleet;A warning, seen from surging street,A welcome, seen from sea.There fall, ghosts glorified of tearsShed for the dead in buried years,The silver notes of chimes;And there, with not unreverent handThough light, I lay this “greene garlànd,”This woven wreath of rhymes.
When State Street homes were stately still;When out of town was Murray Hill;In late-deceased “old times”Of vast, embowering bonnet-shapes,And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes,And florid annual-rhymes,He owned a small suburban seatWhere now you see a modern street,A monochrome of brown;The sad “brown-brown” of Dante’s dreams,A twilight turned to stone, that seemsTo weight our city down.Through leafy chestnuts whitely showedThe pillared front of his abode:A garden girt it ’round,Where pungent box did trim encloseThe marigold and cabbage-rose,And “pi’ny” heavy-crowned.Yea, whatso sweets, the changing year’s,He most affected. Gone: but here’sHis face who loved them so.Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild;A cheek clear-hued as cheek of child;Sleek head, a sphere of snow.His mouth was pious, and his nosePatrician; with which mould there goesA disaffected view.In those sublime, be-oratored,Spread-eagle days, his soul deploredSomuchred-white-and-blue!In umber ink, with S’s long,He left behind him censure strongIn stiffest phrases clothed;But Time—a pleasant jest enough!—Has turned the tory leaves to buff,The liberal hue he loathed.Of many a gentle deed he madeBrief simple record. Never fadeThose everlasting-flowersThat spring up wild by good men’s walks;Opinions wither on their stalks,And sere grow Fashion’s bowers.Erect, be-frilled, in neckcloth tall,His semblance sits, removed from allOur needs and noises new;Released from all the rent we payAs tenants of the large To-day,Cool, in a background blue.And he, beneath a cherub chipped,Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped,Sleeps calm where TrinityPoints finger dark to clouds that fleet;A warning, seen from surging street,A welcome, seen from sea.There fall, ghosts glorified of tearsShed for the dead in buried years,The silver notes of chimes;And there, with not unreverent handThough light, I lay this “greene garlànd,”This woven wreath of rhymes.
When State Street homes were stately still;When out of town was Murray Hill;In late-deceased “old times”Of vast, embowering bonnet-shapes,And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes,And florid annual-rhymes,
When State Street homes were stately still;
When out of town was Murray Hill;
In late-deceased “old times”
Of vast, embowering bonnet-shapes,
And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes,
And florid annual-rhymes,
He owned a small suburban seatWhere now you see a modern street,A monochrome of brown;The sad “brown-brown” of Dante’s dreams,A twilight turned to stone, that seemsTo weight our city down.
He owned a small suburban seat
Where now you see a modern street,
A monochrome of brown;
The sad “brown-brown” of Dante’s dreams,
A twilight turned to stone, that seems
To weight our city down.
Through leafy chestnuts whitely showedThe pillared front of his abode:A garden girt it ’round,Where pungent box did trim encloseThe marigold and cabbage-rose,And “pi’ny” heavy-crowned.
Through leafy chestnuts whitely showed
The pillared front of his abode:
A garden girt it ’round,
Where pungent box did trim enclose
The marigold and cabbage-rose,
And “pi’ny” heavy-crowned.
Yea, whatso sweets, the changing year’s,He most affected. Gone: but here’sHis face who loved them so.Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild;A cheek clear-hued as cheek of child;Sleek head, a sphere of snow.
Yea, whatso sweets, the changing year’s,
He most affected. Gone: but here’s
His face who loved them so.
Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild;
A cheek clear-hued as cheek of child;
Sleek head, a sphere of snow.
His mouth was pious, and his nosePatrician; with which mould there goesA disaffected view.In those sublime, be-oratored,Spread-eagle days, his soul deploredSomuchred-white-and-blue!
His mouth was pious, and his nose
Patrician; with which mould there goes
A disaffected view.
In those sublime, be-oratored,
Spread-eagle days, his soul deplored
Somuchred-white-and-blue!
In umber ink, with S’s long,He left behind him censure strongIn stiffest phrases clothed;But Time—a pleasant jest enough!—Has turned the tory leaves to buff,The liberal hue he loathed.
In umber ink, with S’s long,
He left behind him censure strong
In stiffest phrases clothed;
But Time—a pleasant jest enough!—
Has turned the tory leaves to buff,
The liberal hue he loathed.
Of many a gentle deed he madeBrief simple record. Never fadeThose everlasting-flowersThat spring up wild by good men’s walks;Opinions wither on their stalks,And sere grow Fashion’s bowers.
Of many a gentle deed he made
Brief simple record. Never fade
Those everlasting-flowers
That spring up wild by good men’s walks;
Opinions wither on their stalks,
And sere grow Fashion’s bowers.
Erect, be-frilled, in neckcloth tall,His semblance sits, removed from allOur needs and noises new;Released from all the rent we payAs tenants of the large To-day,Cool, in a background blue.
Erect, be-frilled, in neckcloth tall,
His semblance sits, removed from all
Our needs and noises new;
Released from all the rent we pay
As tenants of the large To-day,
Cool, in a background blue.
And he, beneath a cherub chipped,Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped,Sleeps calm where TrinityPoints finger dark to clouds that fleet;A warning, seen from surging street,A welcome, seen from sea.
And he, beneath a cherub chipped,
Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped,
Sleeps calm where Trinity
Points finger dark to clouds that fleet;
A warning, seen from surging street,
A welcome, seen from sea.
There fall, ghosts glorified of tearsShed for the dead in buried years,The silver notes of chimes;And there, with not unreverent handThough light, I lay this “greene garlànd,”This woven wreath of rhymes.
There fall, ghosts glorified of tears
Shed for the dead in buried years,
The silver notes of chimes;
And there, with not unreverent hand
Though light, I lay this “greene garlànd,”
This woven wreath of rhymes.