IV.INGENUITIES: ODDITIES.————
IV.INGENUITIES: ODDITIES.————
SIEGE OF BELGRADE.An Austrian army, awfully arrayed,Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade.Cossack commanders cannonading come,Dealing destruction's devastating doom.Every endeavor engineers essay,For fame, for fortune fighting,—furious fray!Generals 'gainst generals grapple—gracious God!How honors Heaven heroic hardihood!Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill.Labor low levels longest loftiest lines;Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines;Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naughtOf outward obstacles, opposing ought;Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed,Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest.Reason returns, religious right redounds,Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train,Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain!Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome wereXerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier?Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell!Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal,Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!ANONYMOUS.
SIEGE OF BELGRADE.
An Austrian army, awfully arrayed,Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade.Cossack commanders cannonading come,Dealing destruction's devastating doom.Every endeavor engineers essay,For fame, for fortune fighting,—furious fray!Generals 'gainst generals grapple—gracious God!How honors Heaven heroic hardihood!Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill,Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill.Labor low levels longest loftiest lines;Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines;Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naughtOf outward obstacles, opposing ought;Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed,Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest.Reason returns, religious right redounds,Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train,Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain!Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome wereXerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier?Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell!Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal,Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!
ANONYMOUS.
METRICAL FEET.Trochee trips from long to short;From long to long in solemn sortSlow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill ableEver to come up with dactyl trisyllable.Iambics march from short to long;—With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng;One syllable long, with one short at each side,Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;—First and last being long, middle short, AmphimacerStrikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
METRICAL FEET.
Trochee trips from long to short;From long to long in solemn sortSlow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill ableEver to come up with dactyl trisyllable.Iambics march from short to long;—With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng;One syllable long, with one short at each side,Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;—First and last being long, middle short, AmphimacerStrikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
NOCTURNAL SKETCH.BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,The signal of the setting sun—one gun!And six is sounding from the chime, prime timeTo go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,—Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,—Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride rideFour horses as no other man can span;Or in the small Olympic pit sit splitLaughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings thingsSuch as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;The gas upblazes with its bright white light,And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growlAbout the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal,Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads,And sleepers, waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!"Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, maulsSome feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, riseIn childish dreams, and with a roar gore poorGeorgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,And that she hears—what faith is man's!—Ann's bannsAnd his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!THOMAS HOOD.
NOCTURNAL SKETCH.BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,The signal of the setting sun—one gun!And six is sounding from the chime, prime timeTo go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,—Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,—Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride rideFour horses as no other man can span;Or in the small Olympic pit sit splitLaughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings thingsSuch as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;The gas upblazes with its bright white light,And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growlAbout the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal,Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!"
Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads,And sleepers, waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!"Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, maulsSome feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, riseIn childish dreams, and with a roar gore poorGeorgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,And that she hears—what faith is man's!—Ann's bannsAnd his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!
THOMAS HOOD.
RAILROAD RHYME.Singing through the forests,Rattling over ridges;Shooting under arches,Rumbling over bridges;Whizzing through the mountains,Buzzing o'er the vale,—Bless me! this is pleasant,Riding on the rail!Men of different "stations"In the eye of fame,Here are very quicklyComing to the same;High and lowly people,Birds of every feather,On a common level,Travelling together.Gentleman in shorts,Looming very tall;Gentleman at largeTalking very small;Gentleman in tights,With a loose-ish mien;Gentleman in gray,Looking rather green;Gentleman quite old,Asking for the news,Gentleman in black,In a fit of blues;Gentleman in claret,Sober as a vicar;Gentleman in tweed,Dreadfully in liquor!Stranger on the rightLooking very sunny,Obviously readingSomething rather funny.Now the smiles are thicker,—Wonder what they mean!Faith, he's got the Knicker-Bocker Magazine!Stranger on the leftClosing up his peepers;Now he snores amain,Like the Seven Sleepers;At his feet a volumeGives the explanation,How the man grew stupidFrom "Association"!Ancient maiden ladyAnxiously remarks,That there must be peril'Mong so many sparks;Roguish-looking fellow,Turning to the stranger,Says it's his opinionSheis out of danger!Woman with her baby,Sittingvis-à-vis;Baby keeps a-squalling,Woman looks at me;Asks about the distance,Says it 's tiresome talking,Noises of the carsAre so very shocking!Market-woman, carefulOf the precious casket,Knowing eggs are eggs,Tightly holds her basket;Feeling that a smash,If it came, would surelySend her eggs to pot,Rather prematurely.Singing through the forests,Rattling over ridges;Shooting under arches,Rumbling over bridges;Whizzing through the mountains,Buzzing o'er the vale,—Bless me! this is pleasant,Riding on the rail!JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
RAILROAD RHYME.
Singing through the forests,Rattling over ridges;Shooting under arches,Rumbling over bridges;Whizzing through the mountains,Buzzing o'er the vale,—Bless me! this is pleasant,Riding on the rail!
Men of different "stations"In the eye of fame,Here are very quicklyComing to the same;High and lowly people,Birds of every feather,On a common level,Travelling together.
Gentleman in shorts,Looming very tall;Gentleman at largeTalking very small;Gentleman in tights,With a loose-ish mien;Gentleman in gray,Looking rather green;
Gentleman quite old,Asking for the news,Gentleman in black,In a fit of blues;Gentleman in claret,Sober as a vicar;Gentleman in tweed,Dreadfully in liquor!
Stranger on the rightLooking very sunny,Obviously readingSomething rather funny.Now the smiles are thicker,—Wonder what they mean!Faith, he's got the Knicker-Bocker Magazine!
Stranger on the leftClosing up his peepers;Now he snores amain,Like the Seven Sleepers;At his feet a volumeGives the explanation,How the man grew stupidFrom "Association"!
Ancient maiden ladyAnxiously remarks,That there must be peril'Mong so many sparks;Roguish-looking fellow,Turning to the stranger,Says it's his opinionSheis out of danger!
Woman with her baby,Sittingvis-à-vis;Baby keeps a-squalling,Woman looks at me;Asks about the distance,Says it 's tiresome talking,Noises of the carsAre so very shocking!
Market-woman, carefulOf the precious casket,Knowing eggs are eggs,Tightly holds her basket;Feeling that a smash,If it came, would surelySend her eggs to pot,Rather prematurely.Singing through the forests,Rattling over ridges;Shooting under arches,Rumbling over bridges;Whizzing through the mountains,Buzzing o'er the vale,—Bless me! this is pleasant,Riding on the rail!
JOHN GODFREY SAXE.
PHYSICS.(THE UNCONSCIOUS POETIZING OF A PHILOSOPHER.)There is no force however greatCan stretch a cord however fineInto a horizontal lineThat shall be accurately straight.WILLIAM WHEWELL.
PHYSICS.(THE UNCONSCIOUS POETIZING OF A PHILOSOPHER.)
There is no force however greatCan stretch a cord however fineInto a horizontal lineThat shall be accurately straight.
WILLIAM WHEWELL.
THE COLLEGIAN TO HIS BRIDE:BEING A MATHEMATICAL MADRIGAL IN THE SIMPLEST FORM.Charmer, on a given straight line,And which we will call B C,Meeting at a common point A,Draw the lines A C, A B.But, my sweetest, so arrange itThat they're equal, all the three;Then you'll find that, in the sequel,All their angles, too are equal.Equal angles, so to term them,Each one opposite its brother!Equal joys and equal sorrows,Equal hopes, 'twere sin to smother,Equal,—O, divine ecstatics,—Based on Hutton's mathematics!PUNCH.
THE COLLEGIAN TO HIS BRIDE:BEING A MATHEMATICAL MADRIGAL IN THE SIMPLEST FORM.
Charmer, on a given straight line,And which we will call B C,Meeting at a common point A,Draw the lines A C, A B.But, my sweetest, so arrange itThat they're equal, all the three;Then you'll find that, in the sequel,All their angles, too are equal.Equal angles, so to term them,Each one opposite its brother!Equal joys and equal sorrows,Equal hopes, 'twere sin to smother,Equal,—O, divine ecstatics,—Based on Hutton's mathematics!
PUNCH.
THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRINGWhereas, on certain boughs and spraysNow divers birds are heard to sing,And sundry flowers their heads upraise,Hail to the coming on of spring!The songs of those said birds arouseThe memory of our youthful hours,As green as those said sprays and boughs,As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.The birds aforesaid,—happy pairs,—Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrinesIn freehold nests; themselves, their heirs,Administrators, and assigns.O busiest term of Cupid's Court,Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,—Season of frolic and of sport,Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring!HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING
Whereas, on certain boughs and spraysNow divers birds are heard to sing,And sundry flowers their heads upraise,Hail to the coming on of spring!
The songs of those said birds arouseThe memory of our youthful hours,As green as those said sprays and boughs,As fresh and sweet as those said flowers.
The birds aforesaid,—happy pairs,—Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrinesIn freehold nests; themselves, their heirs,Administrators, and assigns.
O busiest term of Cupid's Court,Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,—Season of frolic and of sport,Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
THE COSMIC EGG.Upon a rock yet uncreate,Amid a chaos inchoate,An uncreated being sate;Beneath him, rock,Above him, cloud.And the cloud was rock,And the rock was cloud.The rock then growing soft and warm,The cloud began to take a form,A form chaotic, vast, and vague,Which issued in the cosmic egg.Then the Being uncreateOn the egg did incubate,And thus became the incubator;And of the egg did allegate,And thus became the alligator;And the incubator was potentate,But the alligator was potentator.ANONYMOUS.
THE COSMIC EGG.
Upon a rock yet uncreate,Amid a chaos inchoate,An uncreated being sate;Beneath him, rock,Above him, cloud.And the cloud was rock,And the rock was cloud.The rock then growing soft and warm,The cloud began to take a form,A form chaotic, vast, and vague,Which issued in the cosmic egg.Then the Being uncreateOn the egg did incubate,And thus became the incubator;And of the egg did allegate,And thus became the alligator;And the incubator was potentate,But the alligator was potentator.
ANONYMOUS.
THE HEN.A famous hen's my story's theme,Which ne'er was known to tireOf laying eggs, but then she'd screamSo loud o'er every egg, 't would seemThe house must be on fire.A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk,A wiser bird and older,Could bear 't no more, so off did stalkRight to the hen, and told her:"Madam, that scream, I apprehend,Adds nothing to the matter;It surely helps the egg no whit;Then lay your egg, and done with it!I pray you, madam, as a friend,Cease that superfluous clatter!You know not how 't goes through my head.""Humph! very likely!" madam said,Then proudly putting forth a leg,—"Uneducated barnyard fowl!You know, no more than any owl,The noble privilege and praiseOf authorship in modern days—I'll tell you why I do it:First, you perceive, I lay the egg,And then—review it."From the German ofMATTHAIAS CLAUDIUS.
THE HEN.
A famous hen's my story's theme,Which ne'er was known to tireOf laying eggs, but then she'd screamSo loud o'er every egg, 't would seemThe house must be on fire.A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk,A wiser bird and older,Could bear 't no more, so off did stalkRight to the hen, and told her:"Madam, that scream, I apprehend,Adds nothing to the matter;It surely helps the egg no whit;Then lay your egg, and done with it!I pray you, madam, as a friend,Cease that superfluous clatter!You know not how 't goes through my head.""Humph! very likely!" madam said,Then proudly putting forth a leg,—"Uneducated barnyard fowl!You know, no more than any owl,The noble privilege and praiseOf authorship in modern days—I'll tell you why I do it:First, you perceive, I lay the egg,And then—review it."
From the German ofMATTHAIAS CLAUDIUS.
ODE—TO THE ROC.O unhatched Bird, so high preferred,As porter of the Pole,Of beakless things, who have no wings,Exact no heavy toll.If this my song its theme should wrong,The theme itself is sweet;Let others rhyme the unborn time,I sing the Obsolete.And first, I praise the nobler traitsOf birds preceding Noah,The giant clan, whose meat was Man,Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa.These, by hints we get from printsOf feathers and of feet,Excelled in wits the later tits,And so are obsolete.I sing each race whom we displaceIn their primeval woods,While Gospel Aid inspires Free-TradeTo traffic with their goods.With Norman Dukes the still SiouxIn breeding might compete;But where men talk the tomahawkWill soon grow obsolete.I celebrate each perished State;Great cities ploughed to loam;Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings;Dead Greece, and dying Rome.The Druids' shrine may shelter swine,Or stack the farmer's peat;'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths,Mean men the obsolete.Shall nought be said of theories dead?The Ptolemaic system?Figure and phrase, that bent all waysDuns Scotus liked to twist 'em?Averrhoes' thought? and what was taught,In Salamanca's seat?Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs?Sea-serpents obsolete?Pillion and pack have left their track;Dead is "the Tally-ho;"Steam rails cut down each festive crownOf the old world and slow;Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen,Nor Maypole in the street;No mummers play on Christmas-day;St. George is obsolete.O fancy, why hast thou let dieSo many a frolic fashion?Doublet and hose, and powdered beaux?Where are thy songs whose passionTurned thought to fire in knight and squire,While hearts of ladies beat?Where thy sweet style, ours, ours erewhile?All this is obsolete.In Auvergne low potatoes growUpon volcanoes old;The moon, they say, had her young day,Though now her heart is cold;Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth,Seasons of snow and heat,Checked by her tides in silence glidesTo become obsolete.The astrolabe of every babeReads, in its fatal sky,"Man's largest room is the low tomb—Ye all are born to die."Therefore this theme, O Bird, I deemThe noblest we may treat;The final cause of Nature's lawsIs to grow obsolete.WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE.
ODE—TO THE ROC.
O unhatched Bird, so high preferred,As porter of the Pole,Of beakless things, who have no wings,Exact no heavy toll.If this my song its theme should wrong,The theme itself is sweet;Let others rhyme the unborn time,I sing the Obsolete.
And first, I praise the nobler traitsOf birds preceding Noah,The giant clan, whose meat was Man,Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa.These, by hints we get from printsOf feathers and of feet,Excelled in wits the later tits,And so are obsolete.
I sing each race whom we displaceIn their primeval woods,While Gospel Aid inspires Free-TradeTo traffic with their goods.With Norman Dukes the still SiouxIn breeding might compete;But where men talk the tomahawkWill soon grow obsolete.
I celebrate each perished State;Great cities ploughed to loam;Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings;Dead Greece, and dying Rome.The Druids' shrine may shelter swine,Or stack the farmer's peat;'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths,Mean men the obsolete.
Shall nought be said of theories dead?The Ptolemaic system?Figure and phrase, that bent all waysDuns Scotus liked to twist 'em?Averrhoes' thought? and what was taught,In Salamanca's seat?Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs?Sea-serpents obsolete?
Pillion and pack have left their track;Dead is "the Tally-ho;"Steam rails cut down each festive crownOf the old world and slow;Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen,Nor Maypole in the street;No mummers play on Christmas-day;St. George is obsolete.
O fancy, why hast thou let dieSo many a frolic fashion?Doublet and hose, and powdered beaux?Where are thy songs whose passionTurned thought to fire in knight and squire,While hearts of ladies beat?Where thy sweet style, ours, ours erewhile?All this is obsolete.
In Auvergne low potatoes growUpon volcanoes old;The moon, they say, had her young day,Though now her heart is cold;Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth,Seasons of snow and heat,Checked by her tides in silence glidesTo become obsolete.
The astrolabe of every babeReads, in its fatal sky,"Man's largest room is the low tomb—Ye all are born to die."Therefore this theme, O Bird, I deemThe noblest we may treat;The final cause of Nature's lawsIs to grow obsolete.
WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE.
MOTHERHOOD.She laid it where the sunbeams fallUnscanned upon the broken wall.Without a tear, without a groan,She laid it near a mighty stone,Which some rude swain had haply castThither in sport, long ages past,And time with mosses had o'erlaid,And fenced with many a tall grass-blade,And all about bid roses bloomAnd violets shed their soft perfume.There, in its cool and quiet bed,She set her burden down and fled:Nor flung, all eager to escape,One glance upon the perfect shape,That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,But motionless and soundless there.No human eye had marked her passAcross the linden-shadowed grassEre yet the minster clock chimed seven:Only the innocent birds of heaven—The magpie, and the rook whose nestSwings as the elm-tree waves his crest—And the lithe cricket, and the hoarAnd huge-limbed hound that guards the door,Looked on when, as a summer windThat, passing, leaves no trace behind,All unapparelled, barefoot all,She ran to that old ruined wall,To leave upon the chill dank earth(For ah! she never knew its worth),Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling,And dews of night, that precious thing!And then it might have lain forlornFrom morn to eve, from eve to morn:But, that, by some wild impulse led,The mother, ere she turned and fled,One moment stood erect and high;Then poured into the silent skyA cry so jubilant, so strange,That Alice—as she strove to rangeHer rebel ringlets at her glass—Sprang up and gazed across the grass;Shook back those curls so fair to see,Clapped her soft hands in childish glee;And shrieked—her sweet face all aglow,Her very limbs with rapture shaking—"My hen has laid an egg, I know;And only hear the noise she's making!"CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
MOTHERHOOD.
She laid it where the sunbeams fallUnscanned upon the broken wall.Without a tear, without a groan,She laid it near a mighty stone,Which some rude swain had haply castThither in sport, long ages past,And time with mosses had o'erlaid,And fenced with many a tall grass-blade,And all about bid roses bloomAnd violets shed their soft perfume.There, in its cool and quiet bed,She set her burden down and fled:Nor flung, all eager to escape,One glance upon the perfect shape,That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,But motionless and soundless there.No human eye had marked her passAcross the linden-shadowed grassEre yet the minster clock chimed seven:Only the innocent birds of heaven—The magpie, and the rook whose nestSwings as the elm-tree waves his crest—And the lithe cricket, and the hoarAnd huge-limbed hound that guards the door,Looked on when, as a summer windThat, passing, leaves no trace behind,All unapparelled, barefoot all,She ran to that old ruined wall,To leave upon the chill dank earth(For ah! she never knew its worth),Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling,And dews of night, that precious thing!And then it might have lain forlornFrom morn to eve, from eve to morn:But, that, by some wild impulse led,The mother, ere she turned and fled,One moment stood erect and high;Then poured into the silent skyA cry so jubilant, so strange,That Alice—as she strove to rangeHer rebel ringlets at her glass—Sprang up and gazed across the grass;Shook back those curls so fair to see,Clapped her soft hands in childish glee;And shrieked—her sweet face all aglow,Her very limbs with rapture shaking—"My hen has laid an egg, I know;And only hear the noise she's making!"
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
DISASTER.'Twas ever thus from childhood's hourMy fondest hopes would not decay:I never loved a tree or flowerWhich was the first to fade away!The garden, where I used to delveShort-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty;The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve,I see still blossoming, at twenty.I never nursed a dear gazelle.But I was given a paroquet—How I did nurse him if unwell!He's imbecile but lingers yet.He's green, with an enchanting tuft;He melts me with his small black eye:He'd look inimitable stuffed,And knows it—but he will not die!I had a kitten—I was richIn pets—but all too soon my kittenBecame a full-sized cat, by whichI've more than once been scratched and bitten:And when for sleep her limbs she curledOne day beside her untouched plateful,And glided calmly from the world,I freely own that I was grateful.And then I bought a dog—a queen!Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!She lives, but she is past sixteen,And scarce can crawl across the rug.I loved her beautiful and kind;Delighted in her pert bow-wow:But now she snaps if you don't mind;'T were lunacy to love her now.I used to think, should e'er mishapBetide my crumple-visaged Ti,In shape of prowling thief, or trap,Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die.But ah! disasters have their use;And life might e'en be too sunshiny:Nor would I make myself a goose,If some big dog should swallow Tiny.CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
DISASTER.
'Twas ever thus from childhood's hourMy fondest hopes would not decay:I never loved a tree or flowerWhich was the first to fade away!The garden, where I used to delveShort-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty;The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve,I see still blossoming, at twenty.
I never nursed a dear gazelle.But I was given a paroquet—How I did nurse him if unwell!He's imbecile but lingers yet.He's green, with an enchanting tuft;He melts me with his small black eye:He'd look inimitable stuffed,And knows it—but he will not die!
I had a kitten—I was richIn pets—but all too soon my kittenBecame a full-sized cat, by whichI've more than once been scratched and bitten:And when for sleep her limbs she curledOne day beside her untouched plateful,And glided calmly from the world,I freely own that I was grateful.
And then I bought a dog—a queen!Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug!She lives, but she is past sixteen,And scarce can crawl across the rug.I loved her beautiful and kind;Delighted in her pert bow-wow:But now she snaps if you don't mind;'T were lunacy to love her now.
I used to think, should e'er mishapBetide my crumple-visaged Ti,In shape of prowling thief, or trap,Or coarse bull-terrier—I should die.But ah! disasters have their use;And life might e'en be too sunshiny:Nor would I make myself a goose,If some big dog should swallow Tiny.
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
[A farmers daughter, during the rage for albums, handed to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.]
ON THE BRINK.I watched her as she stooped to pluckA wild flower in her hair to twine;And wished that it had been my luckTo call her mine;Anon I heard her rate with mad,Mad words her babe within its cot,And felt particularly gladThat it had not.I knew (such subtle brains have men!)That she was uttering what she shouldn't;And thought that I would chide, and thenI thought I wouldn't.Few could have gazed upon that face,Those pouting coral lips, and chided:A Rhadamanthus, in my place,Had done as I did.For wrath with which our bosoms glowIs chained there oft by Beauty's spell;And, more than that, I did not knowThe widow well.So the harsh phrase passed unreproved:Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)—I drank unutterably moved,Her beauty in.And to myself I murmured low,As on her upturned face and dressThe moonlight fell, "Would she say No,—By chance, or Yes?"She stood so calm, so like a ghost,Betwixt me and that magic moon,That I already was almostA finished coon.But when she caught adroitly upAnd soothed with smiles her little daughter;And gave it, if I'm right, a supOf barley-water;And, crooning still the strange, sweet loreWhich only mothers' tongues can utter,Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'erIts bread-and-butter;And kissed it clingingly (ah, whyDon't women do these things in private?)—I felt that if I lost her, IShould not survive it.And from my mouth the words nigh flew,—The past, the future, I forgat 'em,—"Oh, if you'd kiss me as you doThat thankless atom!"But this thought came ere yet I spake,And froze the sentence on my lips:"They err who marry wives that makeThose little slips."It came like some familiar rhyme,Some copy to my boyhood set;And that's perhaps the reason I'mUnmarried yet.Would she have owned how pleased she was,And told her love with widow's pride?I never found out that, becauseI never tried.Be kind to babes and beasts and birds,Hearts may be hard though lips are coral;And angry words are angry words:And that's the moral.CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
ON THE BRINK.
I watched her as she stooped to pluckA wild flower in her hair to twine;And wished that it had been my luckTo call her mine;
Anon I heard her rate with mad,Mad words her babe within its cot,And felt particularly gladThat it had not.
I knew (such subtle brains have men!)That she was uttering what she shouldn't;And thought that I would chide, and thenI thought I wouldn't.
Few could have gazed upon that face,Those pouting coral lips, and chided:A Rhadamanthus, in my place,Had done as I did.
For wrath with which our bosoms glowIs chained there oft by Beauty's spell;And, more than that, I did not knowThe widow well.
So the harsh phrase passed unreproved:Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)—I drank unutterably moved,Her beauty in.
And to myself I murmured low,As on her upturned face and dressThe moonlight fell, "Would she say No,—By chance, or Yes?"
She stood so calm, so like a ghost,Betwixt me and that magic moon,That I already was almostA finished coon.
But when she caught adroitly upAnd soothed with smiles her little daughter;And gave it, if I'm right, a supOf barley-water;
And, crooning still the strange, sweet loreWhich only mothers' tongues can utter,Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'erIts bread-and-butter;
And kissed it clingingly (ah, whyDon't women do these things in private?)—I felt that if I lost her, IShould not survive it.
And from my mouth the words nigh flew,—The past, the future, I forgat 'em,—"Oh, if you'd kiss me as you doThat thankless atom!"
But this thought came ere yet I spake,And froze the sentence on my lips:"They err who marry wives that makeThose little slips."
It came like some familiar rhyme,Some copy to my boyhood set;And that's perhaps the reason I'mUnmarried yet.
Would she have owned how pleased she was,And told her love with widow's pride?I never found out that, becauseI never tried.
Be kind to babes and beasts and birds,Hearts may be hard though lips are coral;And angry words are angry words:And that's the moral.
CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY.
THE V-A-S-E.From the maddening crowd they stand apart,The maidens four and the Work of Art;And none might tell from sight aloneIn which had culture ripest grown,—The Gotham Millions fair to see,The Philadelphia Pedigree,The Boston Mind of azure hue,Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—For all loved Art in a seemly way,With an earnest soul and a capital A.————Long they worshipped; but no one brokeThe sacred stillness, until up spokeThe Western one from the nameless place,Who blushingly said: "What a lovely vace!"Over three faces a sad smile flew,And they edged away from Kalamazoo.But Gotham's haughty soul was stirredTo crush the stranger with one small wordDeftly hiding reproof in praise,She cries: "'T is, indeed, a lovely vaze!"But brief her unworthy triumph whenThe lofty one from the home of Penn,With the consciousness of two grand papas,Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"And glances round with an anxious thrill,Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!"I did not catch your remark, becauseI was so entranced with that charming vaws!"Dies erit prægelidaSinistra quum Bostonia.JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
THE V-A-S-E.
From the maddening crowd they stand apart,The maidens four and the Work of Art;
And none might tell from sight aloneIn which had culture ripest grown,—
The Gotham Millions fair to see,The Philadelphia Pedigree,
The Boston Mind of azure hue,Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,—
For all loved Art in a seemly way,With an earnest soul and a capital A.————
Long they worshipped; but no one brokeThe sacred stillness, until up spoke
The Western one from the nameless place,Who blushingly said: "What a lovely vace!"
Over three faces a sad smile flew,And they edged away from Kalamazoo.
But Gotham's haughty soul was stirredTo crush the stranger with one small word
Deftly hiding reproof in praise,She cries: "'T is, indeed, a lovely vaze!"
But brief her unworthy triumph whenThe lofty one from the home of Penn,
With the consciousness of two grand papas,Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!"
And glances round with an anxious thrill,Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.
But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me!
"I did not catch your remark, becauseI was so entranced with that charming vaws!"
Dies erit prægelidaSinistra quum Bostonia.
JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.
LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES.Alone I sit at eventide:The twilight glory pales,And o'er the meadows far and wideChant pensive bobolinks.(One might say nightingales!)Song-sparrows warble on the tree,I hear the purling brook,And from the old "manse o'er the lea"Flies slow the cawing crow.(In England 'twere a rook!)The last faint golden beams of dayStill glow on cottage panes,And on their lingering homeward wayWalk weary laboring men.(Oh, would that we had swains!)From farm-yards, down fair rural gladesCome sounds of tinkling bells,And songs of merry brown milkmaids,Sweeter than oriole's.(Yes, thank you—Philomel's!)I could sit here till morning came,All through the night hours dark,Until I saw the sun's bright flameAnd heard the chickadee.(Alas we have no lark!)We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,No swains, no nightingales,No singing milkmaids (save in books):The poet does his best—It is the rhyme that fails!NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES.
Alone I sit at eventide:The twilight glory pales,And o'er the meadows far and wideChant pensive bobolinks.(One might say nightingales!)
Song-sparrows warble on the tree,I hear the purling brook,And from the old "manse o'er the lea"Flies slow the cawing crow.(In England 'twere a rook!)
The last faint golden beams of dayStill glow on cottage panes,And on their lingering homeward wayWalk weary laboring men.(Oh, would that we had swains!)
From farm-yards, down fair rural gladesCome sounds of tinkling bells,And songs of merry brown milkmaids,Sweeter than oriole's.(Yes, thank you—Philomel's!)
I could sit here till morning came,All through the night hours dark,Until I saw the sun's bright flameAnd heard the chickadee.(Alas we have no lark!)
We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,No swains, no nightingales,No singing milkmaids (save in books):The poet does his best—It is the rhyme that fails!
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.
OF BLUE CHINA.There's a joy without canker or cark,There's a pleasure eternally new,'T is to gloat on the glaze and the markOf china that's ancient and blue;Unchipped, all the centuries throughIt has passed, since the chime of it rang,And they fashioned it, figure and hue,In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.These dragons (their tails, you remark,Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),—When Noah came out of the ark,Did these lie in wait for his crew?They snorted, they snapped, and they slew,They were mighty of fin and of fang,And their portraits Celestials drewIn the reign of the Emperor Hwang.Here's a pot with a cot in a park,In a park where the peach-blossoms blew,Where the lovers eloped in the dark,Lived, died, and were changed into twoBright birds that eternally flewThrough the boughs of the may, as they sang;'T is a tale was undoubtedly trueIn the reign of the Emperor Hwang.ENVOYCome, snarl at my ecstasies, do,Kind critic; your "tongue has a tang,"But—a sage never heeded a shrewIn the reign of the Emperor Hwang.ANDREW LANG.
OF BLUE CHINA.
There's a joy without canker or cark,There's a pleasure eternally new,'T is to gloat on the glaze and the markOf china that's ancient and blue;Unchipped, all the centuries throughIt has passed, since the chime of it rang,And they fashioned it, figure and hue,In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
These dragons (their tails, you remark,Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),—When Noah came out of the ark,Did these lie in wait for his crew?They snorted, they snapped, and they slew,They were mighty of fin and of fang,And their portraits Celestials drewIn the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
Here's a pot with a cot in a park,In a park where the peach-blossoms blew,Where the lovers eloped in the dark,Lived, died, and were changed into twoBright birds that eternally flewThrough the boughs of the may, as they sang;'T is a tale was undoubtedly trueIn the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
ENVOYCome, snarl at my ecstasies, do,Kind critic; your "tongue has a tang,"But—a sage never heeded a shrewIn the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
ANDREW LANG.
A RIDDLE.[14]THE LETTER"H".'T was in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell,And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest,And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed;'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder,Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath,Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death,Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health,Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care,But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned.Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,It will make it acutely and instantly hear.Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,Ah, breathe on it softly,—it dies in an hour.CATHARINE FANSHAWE.
A RIDDLE.[14]THE LETTER"H".
'T was in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell,And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest,And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed;'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder,Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath,Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death,Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health,Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care,But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned.Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,It will make it acutely and instantly hear.Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,Ah, breathe on it softly,—it dies in an hour.
CATHARINE FANSHAWE.
A THRENODY."The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."—London Papers.What, what, what,What's the news from Swat?Sad news,Bad news,Comes by the cable ledThrough the Indian Ocean's bed,Through the Persian Gulf, the RedSea and the Med-Iterranean—he's dead;The Ahkoond is dead!For the Ahkoond I mourn,Who wouldn't?He strove to disregard the message stern,But he Ahkoodn't.Dead, dead, dead;(Sorrow Swats!)Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,Swats whom he had often ledOnward to a gory bed,Or to victory,As the case might be,Sorrow Swats!Tears shed,Shed tears like water,Your great Ahkoond is dead!That Swats the matter!Mourn, city of Swat!Your great Ahkoond is not,But lain 'mid worms to rot.His mortal part alone, his soul was caught(Because he was a good Ahkoond)Up to the bosom of Mahound.Though earthy walls his frame surround(Forever hallowed be the ground!)And sceptics mock the lowly moundAnd say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"His soul is in the skies,—The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat.He sees with larger, other eyes,Athwart all earthly mysteries—He knows what's Swat.Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith a noise of mourning and of lamentation!Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!Fallen is at lengthIts tower of strength,Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;Dead lies the great Ahkoond,The great Ahkoond of SwatIs not!GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN.
A THRENODY."The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."—London Papers.
What, what, what,What's the news from Swat?Sad news,Bad news,Comes by the cable ledThrough the Indian Ocean's bed,Through the Persian Gulf, the RedSea and the Med-Iterranean—he's dead;The Ahkoond is dead!
For the Ahkoond I mourn,Who wouldn't?He strove to disregard the message stern,But he Ahkoodn't.Dead, dead, dead;(Sorrow Swats!)Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,Swats whom he had often ledOnward to a gory bed,Or to victory,As the case might be,Sorrow Swats!Tears shed,Shed tears like water,Your great Ahkoond is dead!That Swats the matter!
Mourn, city of Swat!Your great Ahkoond is not,But lain 'mid worms to rot.His mortal part alone, his soul was caught(Because he was a good Ahkoond)Up to the bosom of Mahound.Though earthy walls his frame surround(Forever hallowed be the ground!)And sceptics mock the lowly moundAnd say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"His soul is in the skies,—The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat.He sees with larger, other eyes,Athwart all earthly mysteries—He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith a noise of mourning and of lamentation!Let Swat bury the great AhkoondWith the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at lengthIts tower of strength,Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;Dead lies the great Ahkoond,The great Ahkoond of SwatIs not!
GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN.