AND have you been to Borderland?
Its country lies on either hand
Beyond the river I-forget.
One crosses by a single stone
So narrow one must pass alone,
And all about its waters fret—
The laughing river I-forget.
Beneath the trees of Borderland
One seems to know and understand,
Beside the river I-forget,
All languages of men and birds;
And all the sweet, unspoken words
One ever missed are murmured yet
By that sweet river I-forget.
One hears there many things afar
From cities where strange peoples are,
Beyond the river I-forget;
And stranger things are in the air,
But what they are one does not care,
For Hope lies sleeping and Regret
Beside the river I-forget.
Some day together hand in hand
I’ll take you there to Borderland,
Beyond the river I-forget;
Some day when all our dreams come true,
One kiss for me and one for you,
We’ll watch the red sun sink and set
Across the river I-forget.
Herman Knickerbocker Vielé.

EPITHALAMIUM

THE marriage bells have rung their peal,
The wedding march has told its story.
I’ve seen her at the altar kneel
In all her stainless, virgin glory;
She’s bound to honor, love, obey,
Come joy or sorrow, tears or laughter.
I watched her as she rode away,
And flung the lucky slipper after.
She was my first, my very first,
My earliest inamorata,
And to the passion that I nursed
For her I well nigh was a martyr.
For I was young, and she was fair,
And always gay and bright and chipper,
And, oh, she wore such sunlit hair,
Such silken stockings! such a slipper!
She did not wish to make me mourn—
She was the kindest of God’s creatures;
But flirting was in her inborn,
Like brains and queerness in the Beechers.
I do not fear your heartless flirt—
Obtuse her dart and dull her probe is;
But when girls do not mean to hurt,
But do—Orate tunc pro nobis!
A most romantic country place;
The moon at full, the month of August;
An inland lake across whose face
Played gentle zephyrs, ne’er a raw gust.
Books, boats, and horses to enjoy,
The which was all our occupation;
A damsel and a callow boy—
There! now you have the situation.
We rode together miles and miles,
My pupil she, and I her Chiron;
At home I reveled in her smiles
And read her extracts out of Byron.
We roamed by moonlight, chose our stars
(I thought it most authentic billing),
Explored the woods, climbed over bars,
Smoked cigarettes and broke a shilling.
An infinitely blissful week
Went by in this Arcadian fashion;
I hesitated long to speak,
But ultimately breathed my passion.
She said her heart was not her own;
She said she’d love me like a sister;
She cried a little (not alone);
I begged her not to fret, and—kissed her.
I lost some sleep, some pounds in weight,
A deal of time, and all my spirits,
And much—how much I dare not state—
I mused upon that damsel’s merits.
I tortured my unhappy soul,
I wished I never might recover;
I hoped her marriage bells might toll
A requiem for her faithful lover.
And now she’s married, now she wears
A wedding-ring upon her finger;
And I—although it odd appears—
Still in the flesh I seem to linger.
Lo, there my swallow-tail, and here
Lies by my side a wedding favor;
Beside it stands a mug of beer,
I taste it—how divine its flavor!
I saw her in her bridal dress
Stand pure and lovely at the altar;
I heard her firm response—that “Yes,”
Without a quiver or a falter.
And here I sit and drink to her
Long life and happiness, God bless her!
Now fill again. No heel-taps, sir;
Here’s to—Success to her successor!
E. S. Martin.

INFIRM

“I  WILL not go,” he said, “for well
I know her eyes’ insidious spell,
And how unspeakably he feels
Who takes no pleasure in his meals.
I know a one-idea’d man
Should undergo the social ban,
And if she once my purpose melts
I know I’ll think of nothing else.
“I care not though her teeth are pearls—
The town is full of nicer girls!
I care not though her lips are red—
It does not do to lose one’s head!
I’ll give her leisure to discover,
For once, how little I think of her;
And then, how will she feel?” cried he—
And took his hat and went to see.
E. S. Martin.

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

I  LOVED a maid (oh, she was fair of face!)
But common words above
Was my true love—
So I was silent for a little space—
Yet, ’gainst the day I meant that she should hear me,
I sought for stately words that might endear me.
My ardent lips, I vowed, should not repeat
What countless lovers swear:—
“Oh, thou art fair!”
I scorned to merely say, “I love thee, Sweet!”
So spent long days with rhetoric and tutor,
In framing sentences I dreamed might suit her.
Oh, how I pondered what she best might hear!
Words should like jewels shine
To make her mine—
No commonplaces must offend her ear:
But while for proper words my passion tarried
I learned the maiden some one else had married!
Margaret Deland.

THE BLUEBELL

IN love she fell,
My shy Bluebell,
With a strolling Bumblebee;
“I love you so,”
He whispered low,
“Sweet, give your heart to me!”
“I love but you,
And I’ll be true,
Oh, give me your heart, I pray?”
She bent her head,—
“I will,” she said;
When, lo, he flew away!
Margaret Deland.

A MODERN MARTYRDOM

THE Weverwend Awthur Murway Gween,
They say is verwy clevah;
And sister Wuth could heah him pweach,
Fohevah and fohevah.
And I went down to heah him pweach,
With Wuth and my Annette,
Upon the bwave, hewoic deaths
The ancient mawtahs met;
And as he wepwesented them,
In all their acts and feachaws,
The ancient mawtahs, dontcherknow?
Were doocid clevah cweachaws.
But, aw deah me! They don’t compah
In twue hewoic bwavewy,
To a bwave hewo fwiend of mine,
Young Montmowenci Averwy.
He earned foah dollahs everwy week,
And not anothah coppah;
But this bwave soul wesolved to dwess
Pwe-eminently pwoppah.
So this was all the food each day,
The bwave young cweachaw had—
One glaws of milk, a cigawette,
Foah cwackers, and some bwead.
He lived on foahteen cents a day,
And cherwished one great passion:
The pwecious pwoject of his soul,
Of being dwessed in fashion.
But when he’d earned a suit entiah,
To his supweme chagwin,
Just then did shawt-tailed coats go out,
And long-tailed coats come in;
But naught could bweak his wigid will
And now, I pway you, note,
That he gave up his glaws of milk
And bought a long-tailed coat.
But then the fashion changed once moah,
And bwought a gwievous plight;
It changed from twousers that are loose
To twousers that are tight.
Then his foah cwackers he gave up,
He just wenounced their use;
And changed to twousers that are tight
From twousers that are loose.
And then the narrow-toed style shoes
To bwoad-toed changed instead;
Then he pwocured a bwoad-toed paih,
And gave up eating bwead.
Just then the bwoad-bwimmed style of hat
To narrow bwims gave way;
And so his twibulations gwew,
Incweasing everwy day.
But he pwocured a narrow bwim,
Of verwy stylish set;
But bwave, bwave soul! he had to dwop
His pwecious cigawette.
But now when his whole suit confohmed
To fashion’s wegulation
For lack of cwackers, milk, and bwead,
He perwished of stahvation.
Thus in his owah of victowry,
He passed on to his west—
I weally nevah saw a cawpse
So fashionably dwessed.
My teahs above his well-dwessed clay
Fell like the spwingtime wains;
My eyes had nevah wested on
Such pwoppah dwessed wemains.
The ancient mawtahs—they were gwand
And glowious in their day;
But this bwave Montmowenci was
As gweat and gwand as they.
Sam Walter Foss.

A CORSAGE BOUQUET

MYRTILLA, to-night,
Wears Jacqueminot roses,
She’s the loveliest sight!
Myrtilla to-night:—
Correspondingly light
My pocket-book closes.
Myrtilla, to-night
Wears Jacqueminot roses.
Charles Henry Lüders.

THE BALLAD OF CASSANDRA BROWN

THOUGH I met her in the summer, when one’s heart lies ‘round at ease
As it were in tennis costume, and a man’s not hard to please;
Yet I think at any season to have met her was to love,
While her tones, unspoiled, unstudied, had the softness of the dove.
At request she read us poems, in a nook among the pines,
And her artless voice lent music to the least melodious lines;
Though she lowered her shadowing lashes, in an earnest reader’s wise,
Yet we caught blue gracious glimpses of the heavens that were her eyes.
As in Paradise I listened. Ah, I did not understand
That a little cloud, no larger than the average human hand,
Might, as stated oft in fiction, spread into a sable pall,
When she said that she should study elocution in the fall.
I admit her earliest efforts were not in the Ercles vein:
She began with “Lit-tle Maaybel, with her faayce against the paayne,
And the beacon-light a-trrremble—” which, although it made me wince,
Is a thing of cheerful nature to the things she’s rendered since.
Having learned the Soulful Quiver, she acquired the Melting Mo-o-an,
And the way she gave “Young Grayhead” would have liquefied a stone;
Then the Sanguinary Tragic did her energies employ,
And she tore my taste to tatters when she slew “The Polish Boy.”
It’s not pleasant for a fellow when the jewel of his soul
Wades through slaughter on the carpet, while her orbs in frenzy roll:
What was I that I should murmur? Yet it gave me grievous pain,
When she rose in social gatherings and “searched among the slain.”
I was forced to look upon her, in my desperation dumb—
Knowing well that when her awful opportunity was come
She would give us battle, murder, sudden death at very least—
As a skeleton of warning, and a blight upon the feast.
Once, ah! once I fell a-dreaming; some one played a polonaise
I associated strongly with those happier August days;
And I mused, “I’ll speak this evening,” recent pangs forgotten quite.
Sudden shrilled a scream of anguish: “Curfew SHALL not ring to-night!”
Ah, that sound was as a curfew, quenching rosy warm romance!
Were it safe to wed a woman one so oft would wish in France?
Oh, as she “cull-imbed” that ladder, swift my mounting hope came down.
I am still a single cynic; she is still Cassandra Brown!
Helen Gray Cone.

FROM THREE FLY LEAVES

AH Phyllis! did I only dare
To hope that, as the years go by,
And you, a maid divinely fair,
The cynosure of every eye,
Have fixed the wandering minds of men,
And found a fare for scores of hearses,
You still will open, now and then,
My little book of verses;
Or did I, bolder yet, aspire
To hope that any phrase of mine,
Aglow with memory’s cheering fire
Will burn within that heart of thine;
Although my brow be bare of bays,
My coffers not replete with gain,
I shall not—what’s the foolish phrase?—
Have written quite in vain.
J. K. Stephen.

QUESTION AND ANSWER

THE QUESTION
THE river is flowing,
The stars coming forth:
Great ruddy clouds going
From westward to north.
The rushes are waving,
The water’s still blue:
And I am behaving
Decorously too:
The amorous zephyr
Breathes soft in our ear:
Who hears not is deafer
Than adders, my dear:
Ah! list to the whisper
Of waters and sky!
Thames, vagabond lisper
Grows subtle and sly.
How trebly delicious
The air-draughts we quaff:
The hour is propitious:—
Oh! . . . why do you laugh?

THE ANSWER

Ask the sky why it flushes,
The clouds why they glow:
The weir why it gushes,
The reeds why they grow:
The moon why it rises,
The sun why it sets:
Her why she surprises,
Him why he forgets:
The star why it twinkles,
The west why it shines:
The brow why it wrinkles,
The heart why it pines:
Mankind why they blunder,
The corn why there’s chaff:
Ask yourself why you wonder—
Not me why I laugh!
J. K. Stephen.

A RHYME FOR PRISCILLA

DEAR Priscilla, quaint and very
Like a modern Puritan,
Is a modest, literary,
Merry young American:
Horace she has read, and Bion
Is her favorite in Greek;
Shakespeare is a mighty lion
In whose den she dares but peek;
Him she leaves to some sage Daniel,
Since of lions she’s afraid,—
She prefers a playful spaniel,
Such as Herrick or as Praed;
And it’s not a bit satiric
To confess her fancy goes
From the epic to a lyric
On a rose.
Wise Priscilla, dilettante,
With a sentimental mind,
Doesn’t deign to dip in Dante
And to Milton isn’t kind;
L’Allegro, Il Penseroso
Have some merits she will grant,
All the rest is only so-so,—
Enter Paradise she can’t!
She might make a charming angel
(And she will if she is good),
But it’s doubtful if the change’ll
Make the Epic understood:
Honey-suckling, like a bee she
Goes and pillages his sweets,
And it’s plain enough to see she
Worships Keats.
Gay Priscilla,—just the person
For the Locker whom she loves;
What a captivating verse on
Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves
He could write in catching measure,
Setting all the heart astir!
And to Aldrich what a pleasure
It would be to sing of her,—
He, whose perfect songs have won her
Lips to quote them day by day.
She repeats the rhymes of Bunner
In a fascinating way,
And you’ll often find her lost in—
She has reveries at times—
Some delightful one of Austin
Dobson’s rhymes.
O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla,
Writing of you makes me think,
As I burn my brown Manila
And immortalize my ink,
How well satisfied these poets
Ought to be with what they do
When, especially, they know it’s
Read by such a girl as you:
I who sing of you would marry
Just the kind of girl you are,—
One who doesn’t care to carry
Her poetic taste too far,—
One whose fancy is a bright one,
Who is fond of poems fine,
And appreciates a light one
Such as mine.
Frank Dempster Sherman.

THE OLD COLLECTOR

’TIS strange to look across the street
And feel that we no more shall greet
Our middle-aged, precise, and neat,
Old-fashioned neighbor.
It seems, in his unlighted hall,
His much-prized pictures on the wall
Must miss his presence, and recall
His loving labor.
His manner was serene and fine,
Fashioned on some Old-World design.
His wit grew keener with the wine,
And kindlier after;
And when the revelry rang high,
No one could make more apt reply;
Yet, though they sometimes marked his sigh,
None heard his laughter.
He held as foolish him who dotes
On politics or petticoats;
He vowed he’d hear no talk of votes
Or silly scandals.
No journeys tempted him; he swore
He held his world within his door,
And there he’d dwell till life was o’er,
Secure from vandals.
“Why should I roam the world again?”
He said. “Domingo shows me Spain;
The dust of travel then were vain.
What springtime chances
To match my Corot there! One glance
Is worth a year of actual France.
The real ne’er equals the romance,
Nor fact our fancies.”
His walls were decked with maidens fair—
A Henner with rich auburn hair;
A Reynolds with the stately air
That fits a beauty;
There glanced a Greuze with girlish grace;
And yonder, with the strong, calm face,
The peasant sister of her race,
Whose life is duty.
He valued most the sunny day
Because it lighted his Dupré,
And showed his small Meissonier
In proper fashion.
And tender was the glance he bent
Upon his missal’s ornament,
Whereon some patient monk had spent
His artist passion.
I used to love to see him pass
His fingers o’er some rare old glass.
He never took delight en masse;
He loved each treasure:
The precious bronzes from Japan,
The rugs from towered Ispahan,
His rose-tint Sèvres, his famous fan—
Each had its pleasure.
And so he held that Art was all;
Yet when Death made the solemn call,
Before the desk in his long hall
They found him sitting.
Within the hands clasped on his breast
An old daguerreotype was pressed—
A sweet-faced, smiling girl, and dressed
In frills befitting.
Naught of his story can we know,
Nor whose the fault so long ago,
Nor with what meed of weal or woe
His love was blended.
Yet o’er his rare Delft mantel-tiles
Bellini’s sweet Madonna smiles
As though she knew the weary miles
For him are ended.
Beatrice Hanscom.

THE LAST DITCH

LOVE, through your varied views on Art
Untiring have I followed you,
Content to know I had your heart
And was your Art-ideal, too.
As, dear, I was when first we met.
(’Twas at the time you worshipped Leighton,
And were attempting to forget
Your Foster and your Noel Paton.)
“Love rhymes with Art,” said your dear voice,
And, at my crude, uncultured age,
I could but blushingly rejoice
That you had passed the Rubens stage.
When Madox Brown and Morris swayed
Your taste, did I not dress and look
Like any Middle Ages maid
In an illuminated book?
I wore strange garments, without shame,
Of formless form and toneless tones,
I might have stepped out of the frame
Of a Rossetti or Burne-Jones.
I stole soft frills from Marcus Stone,
My waist wore Herkomer’s disguise,
My slender purse was strained, I own,
But—my silk lay as Sargent’s lies.
And when you were abroad—in Prague—
’Mid Cherets I had shone, a star;
Then for your sake I grew as vague
As Mr. Whistler’s ladies are.
But now at last you sue in vain,
For here a life’s submission ends:
Not even for you will I grow plain
As Aubrey Beardsley’s “lady friends.”
Here I renounce your hand—unless
You find your Art-ideal elsewhere;
I will not wear the kind of dress
That Laurence Housman’s people wear!
E. Nesbit.

BE YE IN LOVE WITH APRIL-TIDE

BE ye in love with April-tide?
I’ faith, in love am I!
For now ’tis sun, and now ’tis shower,
And now ’tis frost, and now ’tis flower,
And now ’tis Laura laughing-eyed,
And now ’tis Laura shy!
Ye doubtful days, O slower glide!
Still smile and frown, O sky!
Some beauty unforeseen I trace
In every change of Laura’s face;—
Be ye in love with April-tide?
I’ faith, in love am I!
Clinton Scollard.

STRAWBERRIES

AGAIN the year is at the prime
With flush of rose and cuckoo-croon;
Care doffs his wrinkled air, and Time
Foots to a gamesome tune.
So, ho, my lads, an’ if you will
But follow underneath the hill,
It’s strawberries! strawberries!
You shall feast, and have your fill!
The elder clusters promise wine
Where dips the path along the lane;
The early lowing of the kine
Floats in a far refrain;
You will forget to dream indeed
Of fruit that Georgian loam-lands breed
In strawberries! strawberries!
That wait for us in Martin’s mead.
Then haste, before the sun be high,
And, haply, catch the morning star;
For, ere the cups of dew be dry,
The berries sweetest are.
And if, perchance, a rustic lass
In merriment a-milking pass,
It’s strawberries! strawberries!
On her lips as in the grass.
Clinton Scollard.

APPLIED ASTRONOMY

HE took me out to see the stars,
That astronomic bore;
He said there were two moons near Mars,
While Jupiter had four.
I thought of course he’d whisper soon
What fourfold bliss ’twould be
To stroll beneath that fourfold moon
On Jupiter with me.
And when he spoke of Saturn’s ring,
I was convinced he’d say
That was the very kind of thing
To offer me some day.
But in a tangent off he went
To double stars. Now that
Was most suggestive, so content
And quite absorbed I sat.
But no, he talked a dreary mess,
Of which the only fraction
That caught my fancy, I confess,
Was “mutual attraction.”
I said I thought it very queer
And stupid altogether,
For stars to keep so very near,
And yet not come together.
At that he smiled, and turned his head;
I thought he’d caught the notion.
He merely bowed good-night and said,
Their safety lay in motion.
Esther B. Tiffany.

COURTSHIP

IT chanced, they say, upon a day,
A furlong from the town,
That she was strolling up the way
As he was strolling down—
She humming low, as might be so,
A ditty sweet and small;
He whistling loud a tune, you know,
That had no tune at all.
It happened so—precisely so—
As all their friends and neighbours know.
As I and you perhaps might do,
They gazed upon the ground;
But when they’d gone a yard or two
Of course they both looked round.
They both were pained, they both explained
What caused their eyes to roam;
And nothing after that remained
But he should see her home.
It happened so—precisely so
As all their friends and neighbours know.
Next day to that ’twas common chat,
Admitting no debate,
A bonnet close beside a hat
Was sitting on a gate.
A month, not more, had bustled o’er,
When, braving nod and smile,
One blushing soul came through the door
Where two went up the aisle.
It happened so—precisely so—
As all their friends and neighbours know.
Frederick Langbridge.

EYES OF BLACK AND EYES OF BLUE

(From the Viceroy)