DEBORAH LEE[9]'T is a dozen or so of years ago,Somewhere in the West countree,That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers knowBy the name of Deborah Lee;Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe,But Deborah by me.Now I was green, and she was green,As a summer's squash might be;And we loved as warmly as other folks,—I and my Deborah Lee,—With a love that the lasses of HoosierdomCoveted her and me.But somehow it happened a long time ago,In the aguish West countree,That chill March morning gave theshakesTo my beautiful Deborah Lee;And the grim steam-doctor (drat him!) came,And bore her away from me,—The doctor and death, old partners they,—In the aguish West countree.The angels wanted her in heaven(But they never asked for me),And that is the reason, I rather guess,In the aguish West countree,That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and death,Took off my Deborah Lee—My beautiful Deborah Lee—From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers,And bore her away from me.Our love was as strong as a six-horse team,Or the love of folks older than we,Or possibly wiser than we;But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,Was rather too many for me:He closed the peepers and silenced the breathOf my sweetheart Deborah Lee,And her form lies cold in the prairie mold,Silent and cold,—ah me!The foot of the hunter shall press her grave,And the prairie's sweet wild flowersIn their odorous beauty around it waveThrough all the sunny hours,—The still, bright summer hours;And the birds shall sing in the tufted grassAnd the nectar-laden bee,With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass,—She wakes no more to me;Ah, nevermore to me!Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring,She wakes no more to me.Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night,A vision of beauty I seeGliding soft to my bedside,—a phantom of light,Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,—My bride that was to be;And I wake to mourn that the doctor, and death,And the cold March wind, should stop the breathOf my darling Deborah Lee,—Adorable Deborah Lee,—That angels should want her up in heavenBefore they wanted me.WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.
DEBORAH LEE[9]
'T is a dozen or so of years ago,Somewhere in the West countree,That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers knowBy the name of Deborah Lee;Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe,But Deborah by me.
Now I was green, and she was green,As a summer's squash might be;And we loved as warmly as other folks,—I and my Deborah Lee,—With a love that the lasses of HoosierdomCoveted her and me.
But somehow it happened a long time ago,In the aguish West countree,That chill March morning gave theshakesTo my beautiful Deborah Lee;And the grim steam-doctor (drat him!) came,And bore her away from me,—The doctor and death, old partners they,—In the aguish West countree.
The angels wanted her in heaven(But they never asked for me),And that is the reason, I rather guess,In the aguish West countree,That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and death,Took off my Deborah Lee—My beautiful Deborah Lee—From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers,And bore her away from me.
Our love was as strong as a six-horse team,Or the love of folks older than we,Or possibly wiser than we;But death, with the aid of doctor and steam,Was rather too many for me:He closed the peepers and silenced the breathOf my sweetheart Deborah Lee,And her form lies cold in the prairie mold,Silent and cold,—ah me!
The foot of the hunter shall press her grave,And the prairie's sweet wild flowersIn their odorous beauty around it waveThrough all the sunny hours,—The still, bright summer hours;And the birds shall sing in the tufted grassAnd the nectar-laden bee,With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass,—She wakes no more to me;Ah, nevermore to me!Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring,She wakes no more to me.
Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night,A vision of beauty I seeGliding soft to my bedside,—a phantom of light,Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,—My bride that was to be;And I wake to mourn that the doctor, and death,And the cold March wind, should stop the breathOf my darling Deborah Lee,—Adorable Deborah Lee,—That angels should want her up in heavenBefore they wanted me.
WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.
THE COCK AND THE BULL.[10]You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I boughtOf a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day—I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech,As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur(You catch the paronomasia, play o' words?)—Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days.Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,And clapt it i' my poke, and gave for sameBy way, to-wit, of barter or exchange—"Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term—One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm.O-n-e one and f-o-u-r fourPence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?—What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock,One day (and what a roaring day it was!)In February, eighteen sixty-nine,Alexandrina Victoria, FideiHm—hm—how runs the jargon?—being on throne.Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,The basis or substratum—what you will—Of the impending eighty thousand lines."Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge.But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.Mark first the rationale of the thing:Hear logic rival and levigate the deed.That shilling—and for matter o' that, the pence—I had o' course upo' me—wi' me, say—(Mecum's the Latin, make a note o' that)When I popped pen i' stand, blew snout, scratched ear,Sniffed—tch!—at snuff-box; tumbled up, he-heed,Haw-hawed (not hee-hawed, that's another guess thing:)Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door,I shoved the door ope wi' my omoplat;Andin vestibulo, i' the entrance-hall,Donned galligaskins, antigropelos,And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,One on and one a-dangle i' my hand.And ombrifuge, (Lord love you!) case o' rain,I flopped forth, 's buddikins! on my own ten toes,(I do assure you there be ten of them.)And went clump-clumping up hill and down daleTo find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy.Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' boughtThis sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy,This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D.That's proven without aid from mumping Pope,Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal.(Isn't it, old Fatchaps? You 're in Euclid now.)So, having the shilling—having i' fact a lot—And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them,I purchased, as I think I said before,The pebble (lapis, lapidis,—di,—dem.—de,—What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?)O' the boy, a bare-legged beggarly son of a gun,For one and fourpence. Here we are again.Now Law steps in, big-wigged, voluminous-jawed;Investigates and re-investigates.Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head.Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.But now (by virtue of the said exchangeAnd barter)vice versaall the coin,Per juris operationem, vestsI' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom;(In sæcula sæculo-o-o-orum;I think I hear the Abbate mouth out that.)To have and hold the same to him and them ...Confersome idiot on Conveyancing,Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,And all that appertaineth thereunto,Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should,(Subandi cætera—clap me to the close—For what's the good of law in a case o' the kind?)Is mine to all intents and purposes.This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality.He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him,(This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)—And paid for 't,likea gen'lman, on the nail."Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit.Fiddlestick's end! Get out, you blazing ass!Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-babyme!Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?"—There's the transaction viewed, i' the vendor's light.Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,With her three frowsy-browsy brats o' babes,The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap—Faugh?Aie, aie, aie, aie!ὁτοτοτοτοτοἱ,('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty-toighty now)—And the baker and candlestick-maker, and Jack and Gill,Bleared Goody this and queasy Gaffer that.Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.He saw a gentleman purchase of a ladA stone, and pay for itrite, on the square,And carry it offper saltum, jauntily,Propria quæ maribus, gentleman's property now(Agreeable to the law explained above),In proprium usum, for his private ends.The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bitI' the face the shilling: heaved a thumping-stoneAt a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by,(And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,)Thenabiit—what's the Ciceronian phrase?—Excessit, evasit, erupit,—off slogs boy;Off in three flea-skips.Hactenus, so far,So good,tam bene.Bene, satis, male,—Where was I? who said what of one in a quag?I did once hitch the syntax into verse:Verbum personale, a verb personal,Concordat,—ay, "agrees," old Fatchaps—cumNominativo, with its nominative,Genere, i' point o' gender,numero,O' number,et persona, and person.Ut,Instance:Sol ruit, down flops sun,et, and,Montes umbrantur, snuffs out mountains. Pah!Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.You see the trick on 't though, and can yourselfContinue the discoursead libitum.It takes up about eighty thousand lines,A thing imagination boggles at:And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands,Extend from here to Mesopotamy.CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
THE COCK AND THE BULL.[10]
You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I boughtOf a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day—I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech,As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur(You catch the paronomasia, play o' words?)—Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days.Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern,And clapt it i' my poke, and gave for sameBy way, to-wit, of barter or exchange—"Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term—One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm.O-n-e one and f-o-u-r fourPence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?—What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock,One day (and what a roaring day it was!)In February, eighteen sixty-nine,Alexandrina Victoria, FideiHm—hm—how runs the jargon?—being on throne.
Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put,The basis or substratum—what you will—Of the impending eighty thousand lines."Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge.But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit.
Mark first the rationale of the thing:Hear logic rival and levigate the deed.That shilling—and for matter o' that, the pence—I had o' course upo' me—wi' me, say—(Mecum's the Latin, make a note o' that)When I popped pen i' stand, blew snout, scratched ear,Sniffed—tch!—at snuff-box; tumbled up, he-heed,Haw-hawed (not hee-hawed, that's another guess thing:)Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door,I shoved the door ope wi' my omoplat;Andin vestibulo, i' the entrance-hall,Donned galligaskins, antigropelos,And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves,One on and one a-dangle i' my hand.And ombrifuge, (Lord love you!) case o' rain,I flopped forth, 's buddikins! on my own ten toes,(I do assure you there be ten of them.)And went clump-clumping up hill and down daleTo find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy.Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' boughtThis sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy,This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D.That's proven without aid from mumping Pope,Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal.(Isn't it, old Fatchaps? You 're in Euclid now.)So, having the shilling—having i' fact a lot—And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them,I purchased, as I think I said before,The pebble (lapis, lapidis,—di,—dem.—de,—What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?)O' the boy, a bare-legged beggarly son of a gun,For one and fourpence. Here we are again.Now Law steps in, big-wigged, voluminous-jawed;Investigates and re-investigates.Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head.Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case.
At first the coin was mine, the chattel his.But now (by virtue of the said exchangeAnd barter)vice versaall the coin,Per juris operationem, vestsI' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom;(In sæcula sæculo-o-o-orum;I think I hear the Abbate mouth out that.)To have and hold the same to him and them ...Confersome idiot on Conveyancing,Whereas the pebble and every part thereof,And all that appertaineth thereunto,Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should,(Subandi cætera—clap me to the close—For what's the good of law in a case o' the kind?)Is mine to all intents and purposes.This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale.
Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality.He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him,(This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)—And paid for 't,likea gen'lman, on the nail."Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit.Fiddlestick's end! Get out, you blazing ass!Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-babyme!Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?"—There's the transaction viewed, i' the vendor's light.
Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by,With her three frowsy-browsy brats o' babes,The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap—Faugh?Aie, aie, aie, aie!ὁτοτοτοτοτοἱ,('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty-toighty now)—And the baker and candlestick-maker, and Jack and Gill,Bleared Goody this and queasy Gaffer that.Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first.
He saw a gentleman purchase of a ladA stone, and pay for itrite, on the square,And carry it offper saltum, jauntily,Propria quæ maribus, gentleman's property now(Agreeable to the law explained above),In proprium usum, for his private ends.The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bitI' the face the shilling: heaved a thumping-stoneAt a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by,(And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,)Thenabiit—what's the Ciceronian phrase?—Excessit, evasit, erupit,—off slogs boy;Off in three flea-skips.Hactenus, so far,So good,tam bene.Bene, satis, male,—Where was I? who said what of one in a quag?I did once hitch the syntax into verse:Verbum personale, a verb personal,Concordat,—ay, "agrees," old Fatchaps—cumNominativo, with its nominative,Genere, i' point o' gender,numero,O' number,et persona, and person.Ut,Instance:Sol ruit, down flops sun,et, and,Montes umbrantur, snuffs out mountains. Pah!Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad.You see the trick on 't though, and can yourselfContinue the discoursead libitum.It takes up about eighty thousand lines,A thing imagination boggles at:And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands,Extend from here to Mesopotamy.
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
THE AULD WIFE.[11]The auld wife sat at her ivied door,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)A thing she had frequently done before;And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.The piper he piped on the hill-top high,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)Till the cow said "I die" and the goose asked "Why;"And the dog said nothing but searched for fleas.The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)His last brew of ale was a trifle hard,The connection of which with the plot one sees.The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)If you try to approach her, away she skipsOver tables and chairs with apparent ease.The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,Which wholly consists of lines like these.She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And spake not a word. While a lady speaksThere is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She gave up mending her father's breeks,And let the cat roll in her best chemise.She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.Her sheep followed her as their tails did them(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And this song is considered a perfect gem,And as to the meaning, it's what you please.CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
THE AULD WIFE.[11]
The auld wife sat at her ivied door,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)A thing she had frequently done before;And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees.
The piper he piped on the hill-top high,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)Till the cow said "I die" and the goose asked "Why;"And the dog said nothing but searched for fleas.
The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)His last brew of ale was a trifle hard,The connection of which with the plot one sees.
The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies,As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas.
The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)If you try to approach her, away she skipsOver tables and chairs with apparent ease.
The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair;(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And I met with a ballad, I can't say where,Which wholly consists of lines like these.
She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks,(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And spake not a word. While a lady speaksThere is hope, but she didn't even sneeze.
She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)She gave up mending her father's breeks,And let the cat roll in her best chemise.
She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks;Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas.
Her sheep followed her as their tails did them(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)And this song is considered a perfect gem,And as to the meaning, it's what you please.
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION.[12]In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;Meaning, however, is no great matter)Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;Through God's own heather we wonned together,I and my Willie (O love my love):I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,And flitterbats waved alow, above:Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing(Boats in that climate are so polite),And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!Through the rare red heather we danced together,(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:I must mention again it was glorious weather,Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:—By rises that flushed with their purple favors,Through becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,We walked or waded, we two young shavers,Thanking our stars we were both so green.We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,In "fortunate parallels!" Butterflies,Hid in weltering shadows of daffodillyOr marjoram, kept making peacock's eyes:Song-birds darted about, some inkyAs coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;They need no parasols, no galoshes;And good Mrs. Trimmer[13]she feedeth them.Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather)That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—Our fingers at Fate and her goddess glooms:And Willie 'gan sing—(O, his notes were fluty;Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)—Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry:"Bowers of flowers encountered showersIn William's carol (O love my Willie!)When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe TomorrowI quite forget what—say a daffodilly:A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"I think occurred next in his nimble strain;And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden—A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,And all least furlable things got "furled;"Not with any design to conceal their glories,But simply and solely to rhyme with "world."O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,Could be furled together this genial weather,And carted, or carried on wafts away,Nor ever again trotted out—ay me!How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION.[12]
In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter(And heaven it knoweth what that may mean;Meaning, however, is no great matter)Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween;
Through God's own heather we wonned together,I and my Willie (O love my love):I need hardly remark it was glorious weather,And flitterbats waved alow, above:
Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing(Boats in that climate are so polite),And sands were a ribbon of green endowing,And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight!
Through the rare red heather we danced together,(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers:I must mention again it was glorious weather,Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:—
By rises that flushed with their purple favors,Through becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen,We walked or waded, we two young shavers,Thanking our stars we were both so green.
We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,In "fortunate parallels!" Butterflies,Hid in weltering shadows of daffodillyOr marjoram, kept making peacock's eyes:
Song-birds darted about, some inkyAs coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds;Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky—They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds!
But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes,Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem;They need no parasols, no galoshes;And good Mrs. Trimmer[13]she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather)That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms;And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)—Our fingers at Fate and her goddess glooms:
And Willie 'gan sing—(O, his notes were fluty;Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)—Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry:"
Bowers of flowers encountered showersIn William's carol (O love my Willie!)When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe TomorrowI quite forget what—say a daffodilly:
A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow,"I think occurred next in his nimble strain;And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden—A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:
Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,And all least furlable things got "furled;"Not with any design to conceal their glories,But simply and solely to rhyme with "world."
O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,And all the brave rhymes of an elder day,Could be furled together this genial weather,And carted, or carried on wafts away,Nor ever again trotted out—ay me!How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
NEPHELIDIA.From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawnthrough a notable nimbus of nebulous noon-shine,Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flowerthat flickers with fear of the flies as they float,Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously leanfrom a marvel of mystic miraculous moon-shine,These that we feel in the blood of our blushesthat thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat?Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appealof an actor's appalled agitation,Fainter with fear of the fires of the future thanpale with the promise of pride in the past;Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever thatreddens with radiance of rathe recreation,Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleamthrough the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremuloustouch on the temples of terror,Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strifeof the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of eroticemotional exquisite error,Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itselfby beatitude's breath.Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft tothe spirit and soul of our sensesSweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion thatsobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mysticalmoods and triangular tenses—Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that isdark till the dawn of the day when we die.Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory,melodiously mute as it may be,While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruisedby the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod;Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats boundwith the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds,under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of oldand its binding is blacker than bluer:Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies,and their dews are the wine of the blood-shed of things;Till the darkling desire of delight shall be freeas a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed bya hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
NEPHELIDIA.
From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawnthrough a notable nimbus of nebulous noon-shine,Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flowerthat flickers with fear of the flies as they float,Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously leanfrom a marvel of mystic miraculous moon-shine,These that we feel in the blood of our blushesthat thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat?Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appealof an actor's appalled agitation,Fainter with fear of the fires of the future thanpale with the promise of pride in the past;Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever thatreddens with radiance of rathe recreation,Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleamthrough the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremuloustouch on the temples of terror,Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strifeof the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of eroticemotional exquisite error,Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itselfby beatitude's breath.Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft tothe spirit and soul of our sensesSweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion thatsobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mysticalmoods and triangular tenses—Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that isdark till the dawn of the day when we die.Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory,melodiously mute as it may be,While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruisedby the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod;Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats boundwith the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds,under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of oldand its binding is blacker than bluer:Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies,and their dews are the wine of the blood-shed of things;Till the darkling desire of delight shall be freeas a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed bya hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
THE ARAB.On, on, my brown Arab, away, away!Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day,And I trow right meagre hath been thy fareSince they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair,To tread with those echoless, unshod feetYon weltering flats in the noontide heat,Where no palm-tree proffers a kindly shade,And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade;And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough,O, it goes to my heart—but away, friend, off!And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand,As thou standest now, on thy native strand,With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair,And thy nostril upturned to the odorous air,Would not woo thee to pause, till his skill might traceAt leisure the lines of that eager face;The collarless neck and the coal-black pawsAnd the bit grasped tight in the massive jaws;The delicate curve of the legs, that seemToo slight for their burden—and, O, the gleamOf that eye, so sombre and yet so gay!Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away!Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay;Since I crave neitherEchonorFunto-day.For thyhandis not Echoless—there they are,Fun,Glowworm, andEcho, andEvening Star,And thou hintest withal that thou fain wouldst shine,As I read them, these bulgy old boots of mine.But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eatest eel-pie,Thou evermore hast at least one black eye;There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy huesAre due not to nature, but handling shoes;And the bit in thy mouth, I regret to see,Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee!CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
THE ARAB.
On, on, my brown Arab, away, away!Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day,And I trow right meagre hath been thy fareSince they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair,To tread with those echoless, unshod feetYon weltering flats in the noontide heat,Where no palm-tree proffers a kindly shade,And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade;And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough,O, it goes to my heart—but away, friend, off!
And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand,As thou standest now, on thy native strand,With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair,And thy nostril upturned to the odorous air,Would not woo thee to pause, till his skill might traceAt leisure the lines of that eager face;The collarless neck and the coal-black pawsAnd the bit grasped tight in the massive jaws;The delicate curve of the legs, that seemToo slight for their burden—and, O, the gleamOf that eye, so sombre and yet so gay!Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away!
Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay;Since I crave neitherEchonorFunto-day.For thyhandis not Echoless—there they are,Fun,Glowworm, andEcho, andEvening Star,And thou hintest withal that thou fain wouldst shine,As I read them, these bulgy old boots of mine.But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eatest eel-pie,Thou evermore hast at least one black eye;There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy huesAre due not to nature, but handling shoes;And the bit in thy mouth, I regret to see,Is a bit of tobacco-pipe—Flee, child, flee!
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
THE MODERN HIAWATHA.He killed the noble Mudjokivis.Of the skin he made him mittens,Made them with the fur side inside,Made them with the skin side outside.He, to get the warm side inside,Put the inside skin side outside;He, to get the cold side outside,Put the warm side fur side inside.That's why he put the fur side inside,Why he put the skin side outside,Why he turned them inside outside.ANONYMOUS.
THE MODERN HIAWATHA.
He killed the noble Mudjokivis.Of the skin he made him mittens,Made them with the fur side inside,Made them with the skin side outside.He, to get the warm side inside,Put the inside skin side outside;He, to get the cold side outside,Put the warm side fur side inside.That's why he put the fur side inside,Why he put the skin side outside,Why he turned them inside outside.
ANONYMOUS.
POEMSRECEIVED IN RESPONSE TO AN ADVERTISEDCALL FOR A NATIONAL ANTHEM.
POEMSRECEIVED IN RESPONSE TO AN ADVERTISEDCALL FOR A NATIONAL ANTHEM.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY H. W. L——, OF CAMBRIDGE.Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarchOver the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens,—Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen.Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar manner:Wildly he started,—for there in the heavens before himFluttered and flew the original star-spangled banner.Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of thisanthem by the committee: in the first place, it is not ananthem at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from anold Sclavonic war-song of the primeval ages.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY H. W. L——, OF CAMBRIDGE.
Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarchOver the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens,—Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen.
Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon,Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar manner:Wildly he started,—for there in the heavens before himFluttered and flew the original star-spangled banner.
Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of thisanthem by the committee: in the first place, it is not ananthem at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from anold Sclavonic war-song of the primeval ages.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY THE HON. EDWARD E—, OF BOSTON.Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,Ere she a stadium had well advancedOn the great path that to her greatness led;Her temple's propylon, was shatter-ed;Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,She took the oil with which her hair was curledTo grease the "hub" round which revolves the world.This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem,"and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictlynational. To set such an "anthem" to music would requirea Wagner; and even were it really accommodated toa tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY THE HON. EDWARD E—, OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,Ere she a stadium had well advancedOn the great path that to her greatness led;Her temple's propylon, was shatter-ed;Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington,Her incubus was from her bosom hurled;And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,She took the oil with which her hair was curledTo grease the "hub" round which revolves the world.
This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem,"and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictlynational. To set such an "anthem" to music would requirea Wagner; and even were it really accommodated toa tune, it could only be whistled by the populace.
We now come to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY JOHN GREENLEAF W—.My native land, thy Puritanic stockStill finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock;And all thy sons unite in one grand wish,—To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,Told our New England what her sons should do;And, should they swerve from loyalty and right,Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitablefor use in that small margin of the world situated outsideof New England. Hence the above must be rejected.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY JOHN GREENLEAF W—.
My native land, thy Puritanic stockStill finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock;And all thy sons unite in one grand wish,—To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.
Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,Told our New England what her sons should do;And, should they swerve from loyalty and right,Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.
The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitablefor use in that small margin of the world situated outsideof New England. Hence the above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H—.A diagnosis of our history provesOur native land a land its native loves:Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,Its growth a source of wonder far and near.To love it more, behold how foreign shoresSink into nothingness beside its stores.Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra grand—The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land—
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H—.
A diagnosis of our history provesOur native land a land its native loves:Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,Its growth a source of wonder far and near.
To love it more, behold how foreign shoresSink into nothingness beside its stores.Hyde Park at best—though counted ultra grand—The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land—
The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after reading thus far, for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party.
Turn we now to a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY WILLIAM CULLEN B—.The sun sinks softly to his evening post,The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost,And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.So thrones may fall; and from the dust of thoseNew thrones may rise, to totter like the last;But still our country's noble planet glows,While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY WILLIAM CULLEN B—.
The sun sinks softly to his evening post,The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost,And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.
So thrones may fall; and from the dust of thoseNew thrones may rise, to totter like the last;But still our country's noble planet glows,While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.
Upon finding that this does not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle," the committee feel justified in declining it; it being furthermore prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.
Next we quote from a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY GENERAL GEORGE P. M—.In the days that tried our fathers,Many years ago,Our fair land achieved her freedomBlood-bought, you know.Shall we not defend her ever,As we'd defendThat fair maiden, kind and tender,Calling us friend?Yes! Let all the echoes answer,From hill and vale;Yes! Let other nations hearing,Joy in the tale.Our Columbia is a lady,High born and fair,We have sworn allegiance to her,—Touch her who dare.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY GENERAL GEORGE P. M—.
In the days that tried our fathers,Many years ago,Our fair land achieved her freedomBlood-bought, you know.Shall we not defend her ever,As we'd defendThat fair maiden, kind and tender,Calling us friend?
Yes! Let all the echoes answer,From hill and vale;Yes! Let other nations hearing,Joy in the tale.Our Columbia is a lady,High born and fair,We have sworn allegiance to her,—Touch her who dare.
The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric hankerchiefs for ladies especially.
Observe this
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY N. P. W—.One hue of our flag is takenFrom the cheeks of my blushing pet,And its stars beat time and sparkleLike the studs on her chemisette.Its blue is the ocean shadowThat hides in her dreamy eyes,And it conquers all men, like her,And still for a Union flies.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.BY N. P. W—.
One hue of our flag is takenFrom the cheeks of my blushing pet,And its stars beat time and sparkleLike the studs on her chemisette.
Its blue is the ocean shadowThat hides in her dreamy eyes,And it conquers all men, like her,And still for a Union flies.
Several members of the committee find that this "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them.
We next peruse a
NATIONAL ANTHEM.THOMAS BAILEY A—.The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,The cricket quaintly sings;The emerald pigeon nods his head,And the shad in the river springs;The dainty sunflower hangs its headOn the shore of the summer sea;And better far that I were dead,If Maud did not love me.I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,And the cricket that quaintly sings;And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,And the shad that gayly springs.I love the dainty sunflower, too,And Maud with her snowy breast;I love them all; but I love—I love—I love my country best.
NATIONAL ANTHEM.THOMAS BAILEY A—.
The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,The cricket quaintly sings;The emerald pigeon nods his head,And the shad in the river springs;The dainty sunflower hangs its headOn the shore of the summer sea;And better far that I were dead,If Maud did not love me.
I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,And the cricket that quaintly sings;And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,And the shad that gayly springs.I love the dainty sunflower, too,And Maud with her snowy breast;I love them all; but I love—I love—I love my country best.
This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson. Though it may be rejected by the committee, it can never lose its value as a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill the youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, beside touching the youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all.
ROBERT H. NEWELL(Orpheus C. Kerr).——————
ROBERT H. NEWELL(Orpheus C. Kerr).——————
BELAGCHOLLY DAYS.Chilly Dovebber with its boadigg blastDow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd,Eved October's suddy days are past—Add Subber's gawd!I kdow dot what it is to which I cliggThat stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trustThat still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg—Because I bust.Dear leaves that rustle sadly 'death by feet—By liggerigg feet—add fill by eyes with tears,Ye bake be sad, add oh! it gars be greetThat ye are sear!The sud id sulled skies too early sigks;Do trees are greed but evergreeds add ferds;Gawd are the orioles add bobligks—Those Robert Burds!Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds,To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke;Farewell to all articulated wordsI faid would speak.Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward,Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you;With sorrowigg heart I, wretched add forlord,Bid you—achew!!!ANONYMOUS.
BELAGCHOLLY DAYS.
Chilly Dovebber with its boadigg blastDow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd,Eved October's suddy days are past—Add Subber's gawd!
I kdow dot what it is to which I cliggThat stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trustThat still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg—Because I bust.
Dear leaves that rustle sadly 'death by feet—By liggerigg feet—add fill by eyes with tears,Ye bake be sad, add oh! it gars be greetThat ye are sear!
The sud id sulled skies too early sigks;Do trees are greed but evergreeds add ferds;Gawd are the orioles add bobligks—Those Robert Burds!
Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds,To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke;Farewell to all articulated wordsI faid would speak.
Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward,Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you;With sorrowigg heart I, wretched add forlord,Bid you—achew!!!
ANONYMOUS.
SNEEZING.What a moment, what a doubt!All my nose is inside out,—All my thrilling, tickling caustic,Pyramid rhinocerostic,Wants to sneeze and cannot do it!How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me,How with rapturous torment wrings me!Now says, "Sneeze, you fool,—get through it."Shee—shee—oh! 'tis most del-ishi—Ishi—ishi—most del-ishi!(Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!)Snuff is a delicious thing.LEIGH HUNT.
SNEEZING.
What a moment, what a doubt!All my nose is inside out,—All my thrilling, tickling caustic,Pyramid rhinocerostic,Wants to sneeze and cannot do it!How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me,How with rapturous torment wrings me!Now says, "Sneeze, you fool,—get through it."Shee—shee—oh! 'tis most del-ishi—Ishi—ishi—most del-ishi!(Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!)Snuff is a delicious thing.
LEIGH HUNT.
TO MY NOSE.Knows he that never took a pinch,Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows?Knows he the titillating joysWhich my nose knows?O nose, I am as proud of theeAs any mountain of its snows;I gaze on thee, and feel that prideA Roman knows!ALFRED A. FORRESTER(Alfred Crowquill).
TO MY NOSE.
Knows he that never took a pinch,Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows?Knows he the titillating joysWhich my nose knows?O nose, I am as proud of theeAs any mountain of its snows;I gaze on thee, and feel that prideA Roman knows!
ALFRED A. FORRESTER(Alfred Crowquill).
LAPSUS CALAMI.TO R. K.Will there never come a seasonWhich shall rid us from the curseOf a prose which knows no reasonAnd an unmelodious verse:When the world shall cease to wonderAt the genius of an ass,And a boy's eccentric blunderShall not bring success to pass:When mankind shall be deliveredFrom the clash of magazines,And the inkstand shall be shiveredInto countless smithereens:When there stands a muzzled stripling,Mute, beside a muzzled bore:When the Rudyards cease from KiplingAnd the Haggards ride no more?JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.
LAPSUS CALAMI.TO R. K.
Will there never come a seasonWhich shall rid us from the curseOf a prose which knows no reasonAnd an unmelodious verse:When the world shall cease to wonderAt the genius of an ass,And a boy's eccentric blunderShall not bring success to pass:
When mankind shall be deliveredFrom the clash of magazines,And the inkstand shall be shiveredInto countless smithereens:When there stands a muzzled stripling,Mute, beside a muzzled bore:When the Rudyards cease from KiplingAnd the Haggards ride no more?
JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN.
A CONSERVATIVE.The garden beds I wandered byOne bright and cheerful morn,When I found a new-fledged butterfly,A-sitting on a thorn,A black and crimson butterfly,All doleful and forlorn.I thought that life could have no sting,To infant butterflies,So I gazed on this unhappy thingWith wonder and surprise,While sadly with his waving wingHe wiped his weeping eyes.Said I, "What can the matter be?Why weepest thou so sore?With garden fair and sunlight freeAnd flowers in goodly store:"—But he only turned away from meAnd burst into a roar.Cried he, "My legs are thin and fewWhere once I had a swarm!Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—Once kept my body warm,Before these flapping wing-things grew,To hamper and deform!"At that outrageous bug I shotThe fury of mine eye;Said I, in scorn all burning hot,In rage and anger high,"You ignominious idiot!Those wings are made to fly!""I do not want to fly," said he,"I only want to squirm!"And he drooped his wings dejectedly,But still his voice was firm:"I do not want to be a fly!I want to be a worm!"O yesterday of unknown lack!To-day of unknown bliss!I left my fool in red and black,The last I saw was this,—The creature madly climbing backInto his chrysalis.CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN.
A CONSERVATIVE.
The garden beds I wandered byOne bright and cheerful morn,When I found a new-fledged butterfly,A-sitting on a thorn,A black and crimson butterfly,All doleful and forlorn.
I thought that life could have no sting,To infant butterflies,So I gazed on this unhappy thingWith wonder and surprise,While sadly with his waving wingHe wiped his weeping eyes.
Said I, "What can the matter be?Why weepest thou so sore?With garden fair and sunlight freeAnd flowers in goodly store:"—But he only turned away from meAnd burst into a roar.
Cried he, "My legs are thin and fewWhere once I had a swarm!Soft fuzzy fur—a joy to view—Once kept my body warm,Before these flapping wing-things grew,To hamper and deform!"
At that outrageous bug I shotThe fury of mine eye;Said I, in scorn all burning hot,In rage and anger high,"You ignominious idiot!Those wings are made to fly!"
"I do not want to fly," said he,"I only want to squirm!"And he drooped his wings dejectedly,But still his voice was firm:"I do not want to be a fly!I want to be a worm!"
O yesterday of unknown lack!To-day of unknown bliss!I left my fool in red and black,The last I saw was this,—The creature madly climbing backInto his chrysalis.
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN.
"FOREVER."Forever! 'T is a single word!Our rude forefathers deemed it two;Can you imagine so absurdA view?Forever! What abysms of woeThe word reveals, what frenzy, whatDespair! For ever (printed so)Did not.It looks, ah me! how trite and tame;It fails to sadden or appallOr solace—it is not the sameAt all.O thou to whom it first occurredTo solder the disjoined, and dowerThy native language with a wordOf power:We bless thee! Whether far or nearThy dwelling, whether dark or fairThy kingly brow, is neither hereNor there.But in men's hearts shall be thy throne,While the great pulse of England beats:Thou coiner of a word unknownTo Keats!And nevermore must printer doAs men did long ago; but run"For" into "ever," bidding twoBe one.Forever! passion-fraught, it throwsO'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour:It's sweet, it's strange; and I supposeIt's grammar.Forever! 'T is a single word!And yet our fathers deemed it two:Nor am I confident they erred;—Are you?CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
"FOREVER."
Forever! 'T is a single word!Our rude forefathers deemed it two;Can you imagine so absurdA view?
Forever! What abysms of woeThe word reveals, what frenzy, whatDespair! For ever (printed so)Did not.
It looks, ah me! how trite and tame;It fails to sadden or appallOr solace—it is not the sameAt all.
O thou to whom it first occurredTo solder the disjoined, and dowerThy native language with a wordOf power:
We bless thee! Whether far or nearThy dwelling, whether dark or fairThy kingly brow, is neither hereNor there.
But in men's hearts shall be thy throne,While the great pulse of England beats:Thou coiner of a word unknownTo Keats!
And nevermore must printer doAs men did long ago; but run"For" into "ever," bidding twoBe one.
Forever! passion-fraught, it throwsO'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour:It's sweet, it's strange; and I supposeIt's grammar.
Forever! 'T is a single word!And yet our fathers deemed it two:Nor am I confident they erred;—Are you?
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.