They stood on the bridge at midnight,In a park not far from the town;They stood on the bridge at midnight,Because they didn't sit down.The moon rose o'er the city,Behind the dark church spire;The moon rose o'er the cityAnd kept on rising higher.How often, oh, how often!They whispered words so soft;How often, oh, how often;How often, oh, how oft!
Ben King.
If I should die to-nightAnd you should come to my cold corpse and say,Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay—If I should die to-night,And you should come in deepest grief and woe—And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"I might arise in my large white cravatAnd say, "What's that?"If I should die to-nightAnd you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,I say, if I should die to-nightAnd you should come to me, and there and thenJust even hint 'bout paying me that ten,I might arise the while,But I'd drop dead again.
Ben King.
The day is done, and darknessFrom the wing of night is loosed,As a feather is wafted downward,From a chicken going to roost.I see the lights of the baker,Gleam through the rain and mist,And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,That I cannot well resist.A feeling of sadness and longingThat is not like being sick,And resembles sorrow onlyAs a brickbat resembles a brick.Come, get for me some supper,—A good and regular meal—That shall soothe this restless feeling,And banish the pain I feel.Not from the pastry bakers,Not from the shops for cake;I wouldn't give a farthingFor all that they can make.For, like the soup at dinner,Such things would but suggestSome dishes more substantial,And to-night I want the best.Go to some honest butcher,Whose beef is fresh and nice,As any they have in the cityAnd get a liberal slice.Such things through days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,For sad and desperate feelings,Are wonderful remedies.They have an astonishing powerTo aid and reinforce,And come like the "finally, brethren,"That follows a long discourse.Then get me a tender sirloinFrom off the bench or hook.And lend to its sterling goodnessThe science of the cook.And the night shall be filled with comfort,And the cares with which it begunShall fold up their blankets like Indians,And silently cut and run.
Phœbe Cary.
He dwelt among "Apartments let,"About five stories high;A man, I thought, that none would get,And very few would try.A boulder, by a larger stoneHalf hidden in the mud,Fair as a man when only oneIs in the neighborhood.He lived unknown, and few could tellWhen Jacob was not free;But he has got a wife—and O!The difference to me!
Phœbe Cary.
We were crowded in the cabin,Not a soul had room to sleep;It was midnight on the waters,And the banks were very steep.'Tis a fearful thing when sleeping,To be startled by the shock,And to hear the rattling trumpetThunder, "Coming to a lock!"So we shuddered there in silence,For the stoutest berth was shook,While the wooden gates were openedAnd the mate talked with the cook.And as thus we lay in darkness,Each one wishing we were there,"We are through!" the captain shouted,And he sat down on a chair.And his little daughter whispered,Thinking that he ought to know,"Isn't travelling by canal-boatsJust as safe as it is slow?"Then he kissed the little maiden,And with better cheer we spoke,And we trotted into Pittsburg,When the morn looked through the smoke.
Phœbe Cary.
There's a bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard,And the cabbages grow round it, planted for greens;In the time of my childhood 'twas terribly hardTo bend down the bean-poles, and pick off the beans.That bower and its products I never forget,But oft, when my landlady presses me hard,I think, are the cabbages growing there yet,Are the bean-vines still bearing in Benjamin's yard?No, the bean-vines soon withered that once used to wave,But some beans had been gathered, the last that hung on;And a soup was distilled in a kettle, that gaveAll the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,An essence that breathes of it awfully hard;As thus good to my taste as 'twas then to my eyes,Is that bower of bean-vines in Benjamin's yard.
Phœbe Cary.
That very time I saw, (but thou couldst not),Walking between the garden and the barn,Reuben, all armed; a certain aim he tookAt a young chicken, standing by a post,And loosed his bullet smartly from his gun,As he would kill a hundred thousand hens.But I might see young Reuben's fiery shotLodged in the chaste board of the garden fence,And the domesticated fowl passed onIn henly meditation, bullet free.
Phœbe Cary.
Her washing ended with the day,Yet lived she at its close,And passed the long, long night awayIn darning ragged hose.But when the sun in all its stateIllumed the Eastern skies,She passed about the kitchen grateAnd went to making pies.
Phœbe Cary.
When lovely woman wants a favor,And finds, too late, that man won't bend,What earthly circumstance can save herFrom disappointment in the end?The only way to bring him over,The last experiment to try,Whether a husband or a lover,If he have feeling is—to cry.
Phœbe Cary.
A fellow near Kentucky's climeCries, "Boatman, do not tarry,And I'll give thee a silver dimeTo row us o'er the ferry.""Now, who would cross the Ohio,This dark and stormy water?""O, I am this young lady's beau,And she, John Thompson's daughter."We've fled before her father's spiteWith great precipitation;And should he find us here to-night,I'd lose my reputation."They've missed the girl and purse beside,His horsemen hard have pressed me;And who will cheer my bonny bride,If yet they shall arrest me?"Out spoke the boatman then in time,"You shall not fail, don't fear it;I'll go, not for your silver dime,But for your manly spirit."And by my word, the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;For though a storm is coming on,I'll row you o'er the ferry."By this the wind more fiercely rose,The boat was at the landing;And with the drenching rain their clothesGrew wet where they were standing.But still, as wilder rose the wind,And as the night grew drearer;Just back a piece came the police,Their tramping sounded nearer."Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,"It's anything but funny;I'll leave the light of loving eyes,But not my father's money!"And still they hurried in the faceOf wind and rain unsparing;John Thompson reached the landing place—His wrath was turned to swearing.For by the lightning's angry flash,His child he did discover;One lovely hand held all the cash,And one was round her lover!"Come back, come back!" he cried in woe,Across the stormy water;"But leave the purse, and you may go,My daughter, oh, my daughter!"'Twas vain; they reached the other shore(Such doom the Fates assign us);The gold he piled went with his child,And he was left thereminus.
Phœbe Cary.
He is to weet a melancholy carle:Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,As hath the seeded thistle, when a parleIt holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fairIts light balloons into the summer air;Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer;No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom,But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.Ne carèd he for wine, or half and half;Ne carèd he for fish, or flesh, or fowl;And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl:Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair;But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soulPanted and all his food was woodland air;Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.The slang of cities in no wise he knew,Tipping the winkto him was heathen Greek;He sipped no "olden Tom," or "ruin blue,"Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meekBy many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek;Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,Nor in obscurèd purlieus would be seekFor curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat,Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.
John Keats.
'Twas more than a million years ago,Or so it seems to me,That I used to prance around and beauThe beautiful Annabel Lee.There were other girls in the neighborhoodBut none was a patch to she.And this was the reason that long ago,My love fell out of a tree,And busted herself on a cruel rock;A solemn sight to see,For it spoiled the hat and gown and looksOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.We loved with a love that was lovely love,I and my Annabel Lee,And we went one day to gather the nutsThat men call hickoree.And I stayed below in the rosy glowWhile she shinned up the tree,But no sooner up than down kerslupCame the beautiful Annabel Lee.And the pallid moon and the hectic noonBring gleams of dreams for me,Of the desolate and desperate fateOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.And I often think as I sink on the brinkOf slumber's sea, of the warm pink linkThat bound my soul to Annabel Lee;And it wasn't just best for her interestTo climb that hickory tree,For had she stayed below with me,We'd had no hickory nuts maybe,But I should have had my Annabel Lee.
Stanley Huntley.
Being suggestions of the various styles in which an old theme might have been treated by certain metrical composers.
FANTASIA
I
The original theme as John Howard Payne wrote it:
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there,Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!There's no place like Home!An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!The birds singing gaily that came at my call!Give me them! and the peace of mind, dearer than all.Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!There's no place like Home!
II
(As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped it up in variations.)
('Mid pleasures and palaces—)As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is driftedHither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze,Though we wander on gusts of a god's breath, shaken and shifted,The salt of us stings and is sore for the sobbing seas.For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porchesOf bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss,For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor scorches,Nor elsewhere than this.(An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain—)For here we know shall no gold thing glisten,No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine;Nor love lower never an ear to listenTo words that work in the heart like wine.What time we are set from our land apart,For pain of passion and hunger of heart,Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen,Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.(Variation: An exile from home—)Whether with him whose headOf gods is honored,With song made splendent in the sight of men—Whose heart most sweetly stout,From ravishing France cast out,Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then—Or where on shining seas like wineThe dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine.(Give me my lowly thatched cottage—)For Joy finds Love grow bitter,And spreads his wings to quit her,At thought of birds that twitterBeneath the roof-tree's straw—Of birds that come for calling,No fear or fright appalling,When dews of dusk are falling,Or daylight's draperies draw.(Give me them, and the peace of mind—)Give me these things then back, though the givingBe at cost of earth's garner of gold;There is no life without these worth living,No treasure where these are not told.For the heart give the hope that it knows not,Give the balm for the burn of the breast—For the soul and the mind that repose not,Oh, give us a rest!
III
(As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt.)
Brown o' San Juan,Stranger, I'm Brown.Come up this mornin' from 'Frisco—Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.Be'n a-knockin' around,Fer a man from San Juan,Putty consid'able frequent—Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!Right thar lies my home—Right thar in the red—I could slop over, stranger, in po'try—Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace,Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho.Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London,Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live-stock;Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'—For the two of us, pard—and thar, I allow, the heavensSmile more friendly-like than on any other locality.Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction.Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens—I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty—Gimme me them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.Yer parding, young man—But this landscape a kindEr flickers—I 'low 'twuz the po'try—I thought that my eyes hed gone blind.Take that pop from my belt!Hi, thar!—gimme yer han'—Or I'll kill myself—Lizzie—she's left me—Gone off with a purtier man!Thar, I'll quit—the ole galAn' the kids—run away!I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard—The griddle-cake's thar, anyway.
IV
(As Austin Dobson might have translated it from Horace, if it had ever occurred to Horace to write it.)
RONDEAU
At home alone, O Nomades,Although Mæcenas' marble friezeStand not between you and the skyNor Persian luxury supplyIts rosy surfeit, find ye ease.Tempt not the far Ægean breeze;With home-made wine and books that please,To duns and bores the door deny,At home, alone.Strange joys may lure. Your deitiesSmile here alone. Oh, give me these:Low eaves, where birds familiar fly,And peace of mind, and, fluttering by,My Lydia's graceful draperies,At home, alone.
V
(As it might have been constructed in 1744, Oliver Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and Alexander Pope, at 52, the second.)
Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise,Lift us from earth, and draw us toward the skies;'Mid mirag'd towers, or meretricious joys,Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.There, where affection warms the father's breast,There is the spot of heav'n most surely blest.Howe'er we search, though wandering with the windThrough frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,The light of heaven upon our dark below.When from our dearest hope and haven reft,Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left,We long, obedient to our nature's law,To see again our hovel thatched with straw:See birds that know our avenaceous storeStoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:But, of all hopes the wanderer's soul that share,His pristine peace of mind's his final prayer.
VI
(As Walt Whitman might have written all around it.)
You over there, young man with the guide-book, red-bound, covered flexibly with red linen,
Come here, I want to talk with you; I, Walt, the Manhattanese, citizen of these States, call you.
Yes, and the courier, too, smirking, smug-mouthed, with oil'd hair; a garlicky look about him generally; him, too, I take in, just as I would a coyote or a king, or a toad-stool, or a ham-sandwich, or anything, or anybody else in the world.
Where are you going?
You want to see Paris, to eat truffles, to have a good time; in Vienna, London, Florence, Monaco, to have a good time; you want to see Venice.
Come with me. I will give you a good time; I will give you all the Venice you want, and most of the Paris.
I, Walt, I call to you. I am all on deck! Come and loafe with me! Let me tote you around by your elbow and show you things.
You listen to my ophicleide!
Home!
Home, I celebrate. I elevate my fog-whistle, inspir'd by the thought of home.
Come in!—take a front seat; the jostle of the crowd not minding; there is room enough for all of you.
This is my exhibition—it is the greatest show on earth—there is no charge for admission.
All you have to pay me is to take in my romanza.
II
1. The brown-stone house; the father coming home worried from a bad day's business; the wife meets him in the marble pav'd vestibule; she throws her arms about him; she presses him close to her; she looks him full in the face with affectionate eyes; the frown from his brow disappearing.Darling, she says, Johnny has fallen down and cut his head; the cook is going away, and the boiler leaks.
2. The mechanic's dark little third-story room, seen in a flash from the Elevated Railway train; the sewing-machine in a corner; the small cook-stove; the whole family eating cabbage around a kerosene lamp; of the clatter and roar and groaning wail of the Elevated train unconscious; of the smell of the cabbage unconscious.Me, passant, in the train, of the cabbage not quite so unconscious.
3. The French Flat; the small rooms, all right-angles, un-individual; the narrow halls; the gaudy, cheap decorations everywhere.
The janitor and the cook exchanging compliments up and down the elevator-shaft; the refusal to send up more coal, the solid splash of the water upon his head, the language he sends up the shaft, the triumphant laughter of the cook, to her kitchen retiring.
4. The widow's small house in the suburbs of the city; the widow's boy coming home from his first day down town; he is flushed with happiness and pride; he is no longer a school-boy, he is earning money; he takes on the airs of a man and talks learnedly of business.
5. The room in the third-class boarding-house; the mean little hard-coal fire, the slovenly Irish servant-girl making it, the ashes on the hearth, the faded furniture, the private provender hid away in the closet, the dreary backyard out the window; the young girl at the glass, with her mouth full of hairpins, doing up her hair to go downstairs and flirt with the young fellows in the parlor.
6. The kitchen of the old farm-house; the young convict just returned from prison—it was his first offense, and the judges were lenient on him.
He is taking his first meal out of prison; he has been received back, kiss'd, encourag'd to start again; his lungs, his nostrils expand with the big breaths of free air; with shame, with wonderment, with a trembling joy, his heart too, expanding.
The old mother busies herself about the table; she has ready for him the dishes he us'd to like; the father sits with his back to them, reading the newspaper, the newspaper shaking and rustling much; the children hang wondering around the prodigal—they have been caution'd: Do not ask where our Jim has been; only say you are glad to see him.
The elder daughter is there, palefac'd, quiet; her young man went back on her four years ago; his folks would not let him marry a convict's sister. She sits by the window, sewing on the children's clothes, the clothes not only patching up; her hunger for children of her own invisibly patching up.
The brother looks up; he catches her eye, he fearful, apologetic; she smiles back at him, not reproachfully smiling, with loving pretence of hope smiling—it is too much for him; he buries his face in the folds of the mother's black gown.
7. The best room of the house, on the Sabbath only open'd; the smell of horse-hair furniture and mahogany varnish; the ornaments on the what-not in the corner; the wax fruit, dusty, sunken, sagged in, consumptive-looking, under a glass globe, the sealing-wax imitation of coral; the cigar boxes with shells plastered over, the perforated card-board motto.
The kitchen; the housewife sprinkling the clothes for the fine ironing to-morrow—it is the Third-day night, and the plain things are ready iron'd, now in cupboards, in drawers stowed away.
The wife waiting for the husband—he is at the tavern, jovial, carousing; she, alone in the kitchen sprinkling clothes—the little red wood clock with peaked top, with pendulumwagging behind a pane of gayly painted glass, strikes twelve.
The sound of the husband's voice on the still night air—he is singing: "We won't go home until morning!"—the wife arising, toward the wood-shed hastily going, stealthily entering, the voice all the time coming nearer, inebriate, chantant.
The husband passing the door of the wood-shed; the club over his head, now with his head in contact; the sudden cessation of the song; the benediction of peace over the domestic foyer temporarily resting.
I sing the soothing influences of home.
You, young man, thoughtlessly wandering, with courier, with guide-book wandering,
You hearken to the melody of my steam-calliope
Yawp!
H. C. Bunner.
Mary had a little lamb,Its fleece was white as snow,—And everywhere that Mary wentThe lamb was sure to go.
(As Austin Dobson writes it.)
TRIOLET
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),And it tagged her 'round with a pensive bleat,And wherever she went it wanted to go;A little lamb had Mary, sweet,With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
(As Mr. Browning has it.)
You knew her?—Mary the small,How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?You'd never have thought it, never believed,But the girl owned a lamb last fall.Its wool was subtly, silky white,Color of lucent obliteration of night,Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild's arm!You've seen her arm—her right, I mean—The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—How white it is and soft and warm?Ah, there was soul's heart-love, deep, true, and tender,Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,That passionate lambkin—her soul's heart delighting—Ay, every place that Mary sought in,That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.
(As Longfellow might have done it.)
Fair the daughter known as Mary,Fair and full of fun and laughter,Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,Owned him all herself and solely.White the lamb's wool as the Gotchi—The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.Hither Mary went and thither,But went with her to all places,Sure as brook to run to river,Her pet lambkin following with her.
(How Andrew Lang sings it.)
RONDEAU
A wonderful lass was Marie, petite,And she looked full fair and passing sweet—And, oh! she owned—but cannot you guessWhat pet can a maiden so love and caressAs a tiny lamb with a plaintive bleatAnd mud upon his dainty feetAnd a gentle veally odour of meat,And a fleece to finger and kiss and press—White as snow?Wherever she wandered, in lane or street,As she sauntered on, there at her feetShe would find that lambkin—blessThe dear!—treading on her dainty dress,Her dainty dress, fresh and neat—White as snow!
(Mr. Algernon C. Swinburne's idea.)
VILLANELLE
Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair,Maiden and lamb were a sight to see,For her pet was white as she was fair.And its lovely fleece was beyond compare,And dearly it loved its Mistress Marie,Dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair.Its warpéd wool was an inwove snare,To tangle her fingers in, where they could be(For her pet was white as she was fair).Lost from sight, both so snow-white were,And the lambkin adored the maiden wee,Dewy-eyed with shimmering hair.Th' impassioned incarnation of rare,Of limpid-eyed, luscious-lipped, loved beauty,And her pet was white as she was fair.Wherever she wandered, hither and there,Wildly that lambkin sought with her to be,With the dewy-eyed, with shimmering hair,And a pet as white as its mistress was fair.
A. C. Wilkie.
To outer senses they are geese,Dull drowsing by a weedy pool;But try the impression trick. Cool! Cool!Snow-slumbering sentinels of Peace!Deep silence on the shadowy flood,Save rare sharp stridence (that means "quack"),Low amber light in Ariel trackAthwart the dun (that means the mud).And suddenly subsides the sun,Bulks mystic, ghostly, thrid the gloom(That means the white geese waddling home),And darkness reigns! (See how it's done?)
Oscuro Wildgoose.
(Our nurseries will soon lie too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model.)
(Our nurseries will soon lie too cultured to admit the old rhymes in their Philistine and unæsthetic garb. They may be redressed somewhat on this model.)
Oh, but she was dark and shrill,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)The cat that (on the first April)Played the fiddle on the lea.Oh, and the moon was wan and bright,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)The Cow she looked nor left nor right,But took it straight at a jump, pardie!The hound did laugh to see this thing,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)As it was parlous wantoning,(Ah, good my gentles, laugh not ye,)And underneath a dreesome moonTwo lovers fled right piteouslie;A spooney plate with a plated spoon,(Hey-de-diddle and hey-de-dee!)
POSTSCRIPT
Then blame me not, altho' my verseSounds like an echo of C. S. C.Since still they make ballads that worse and worseSavor of diddle and hey-de-dee.
Unknown.
My lank limp lily, my long lithe lily,My languid lily-love fragile and thin,With dank leaves dangling and flower-flap chilly.That shines like the shin of a Highland gilly!Mottled and moist as a cold toad's skin!Lustrous and leper-white, splendid and splay!Art thou not Utter and wholly akinTo my own wan soul and my own wan chin,And my own wan nose-tip, tilted to swayThe peacock's feather,sweeter than sin,That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday?My long lithe lily, my languid lily,My lank limp lily-love, how shall I win—Woo thee to wink at me? Silver lily,How shall I sing to thee, softly or shrilly?What shall I weave for thee—what shall I spin—Rondel, or rondeau, or virelai?Shall I buzz like a bee with my face thrust inThy choice, chaste chalice, or choose me a tinTrumpet, or touchingly, tenderly playOn the weird bird-whistle,sweeter than sin,That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.My languid lily, my lank limp lily,My long lithe lily-love, men may grin—Say that I'm soft and supremely silly—What care I while you whisper stilly;What care I while you smile? Not a pin!While you smile, you whisper—'Tis sweet to decay?I have watered with chlorodine, tears of chagrin,The churchyard mould I have planted thee in,Upside down in an intense way,In a rough red flower-pot,sweeter than sin,That I bought for a halfpenny yesterday.
Unknown.
Jack and JilleI have made me an end of the moods of maidens,I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love;From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens,The woes that madden, the words that move.In the dim last days of a spent September,When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain;Before you forget, and while I remember,I cry as I shall cry never again.Went up a hylleWhere the strong fell faints in the lazy levelsOf misty meadows, and streams that stray;We raised us at eve from our rosy revels,With the faces aflame for the death of the day;With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver,Low lids that cling to the last of love:We left the levels, we left the river,And turned us and toiled to the air above.To fetch a paile of water,By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow,The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips—Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not tomorrow—The wells of Lethe for wearied lips.With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter,With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray,We bowed us and bent to the white well-water,We dipped and we drank it and bore away.Jack felle downeThe low light trembled on languid lashes,The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown,Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes,As night's dim net on the day was thrown.What was it meant for, or made for, that minute,But that our lives in delight should be dipt?Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in itOur frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt.And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after.Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder,Love from our limbs as a shift was shed,But paused a moment, to watch with wonderThe pale pained body, the bursten head.While our sad souls still with regrets are riven,While the blood burns bright on our bruised brows,I have set you free, and I stand forgiven—And now I had better go call my cows.
Unknown.
Wake! for the Hack can scatter into flightShakespeare and Dante in a single Night!The Penny-a-Liner is Abroad, and strikesOur Modern Literature with blithering Blight.Before Historical Romances died,Methought a Voice from Art's Olympus cried,"When all Dumas and Scott is still for Sale,Why nod o'er drowsy Tales, by Tyros tried?"A Book of Limericks—Nonsense, anyhow—Alice in Wonderland, the Purple CowBeside me singing on Fifth Avenue—Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clearsTo-Dayof dreary Debt and sad Arrears;To-morrow!—Why, To-Morrow I may seeMy Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's.And we, that now within the Editor's RoomMake merry while we have our little Boom,Ourselves must we give way to next month's Set—Girls with Three Names, who know not Who from Whom!As then the Poet for his morning SupFills with a Metaphor his mental Cup,Do you devoutly read your ManuscriptsThat Someone may, before you burn them up!And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read,End in the Garbage-Barrel—take no Heed;Think that you are no worse than other Scribes,Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.So, whenWho's-Whorecords your silly Name,You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame;And though ten thousand other Names are there,You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!Why, if an Author can fling Art aside,And in a Book of Balderdash take pride,Were't not a Shame—were't not a Shame for himA Conscientious Novel to have tried?And fear not, if the Editor refuseYour work, he has no more from which to choose;The Literary Microbe shall bring forthMillions of Manuscripts too bad to use.The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines;For her the Home, and Mother-Tale, and ScenesOf Love-and-Action, Happy at the End—The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.But if, in spite of this, you build a PlotWhich these immortal Elements has not,You gazeTo-Dayupon a Slip, which reads,"The Editor Regrets"—and such-like Rot.Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to useThat subtle Touch which Editors refuse;Better be jocund at two cents a word,Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!Strange—is it not?—that of the Authors whoPublish in England, such a mighty FewMake a Success, though here they score a Hit?The British Public knows a Thing or Two!The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose,But what the Editor demands, he shows;And he who buys three thousand words of Drool,He knows what People want—you Bet He knows!Would but some wingèd Angel bring the NewsOf Critic who reads Books that he Reviews,And make the stern Reviewer do as wellHimself, before he Meed of Praise refuse!Ah, Love, could you and I perchance succeedIn boiling down the Million Books we readInto One Book, and edit that a Bit—There'd be aWorld's Best Literatureindeed!
Gelett Burgess.