AIRY, fairy Lilian,
Flitting, fairy Lilian,
When I ask her if she love me,
Clasps her tiny hand above me,
Laughing all she can;
She’ll not tell me if she love me,
Cruel little Lilian.
When my passion seeks
Pleasance in love-sighs,
She, looking through and through me,
Thoroughly to undo me,
Smiling, never speaks:
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,
From beneath her gathered wimple
Glancing with black-beaded eyes,
Till the lightning laughters dimple
The baby-roses in her cheeks;
Then away she flies.
Prithee weep, May Lilian!
Gaiety without eclipse
Wearieth me, May Lilian:
Through my very heart it thrilleth,
When from crimson-threaded lips
Silver-treble laughter trilleth:
Prithee weep, May Lilian!
Praying all I can,
If prayers will not hurt thee,
Airy Lilian,
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,
Fairy Lilian.
Alfred Tennyson.

THE HENCHMAN

MY lady walks her morning round,
My lady’s page her fleet greyhound,
My lady’s hair the fond winds stir,
And all the birds make songs for her.
Her thrushes sing in Rathburn bowers,
And Rathburn side is gay with flowers;
But ne’er like hers, in flower or bird,
Was beauty seen or music heard.
The distance of the stars is hers;
The least of all her worshippers,
The dust beneath her dainty heel,
She knows not that I see or feel.
Oh, proud and calm!—she cannot know
Where’er she goes with her I go;
Oh, cold and fair!—she cannot guess
I kneel to share her hound’s caress!
Gay knights beside her hunt and hawk,
I rob their ears of her sweet talk;
Her suitors come from East and West,
I steal her smiles from every guest.
Unheard of her, in loving words,
I greet her with the song of birds;
I reach her with the green-armed bowers,
I kiss her with the lips of flowers.
The hound and I are on her trail,
The wind and I uplift her veil;
As if the calm, cold moon she were,
And I the tide, I follow her.
As unrebuked as they, I share
The license of the sun and air,
And in a common homage hide
My worship from her scorn and pride.
World-wide apart, and yet so near,
I breathe her charmed atmosphere,
Wherein to her my service brings
The reverence due to holy things.
Her maiden pride, her haughty name,
My dumb devotion shall not shame;
The love that no return doth crave
To knightly levels lifts the slave.
No lance have I, in joust or fight,
To splinter in my lady’s sight;
But, at her feet, how blest were I
For any need of hers to die!
John Greenleaf Whittier.

DOROTHY Q
A FAMILY PORTRAIT

GRANDMOTHER’S mother: her age, I guess,
Thirteen summers, or something less;
Girlish bust but womanly air;
Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;
Lips that lover has never kissed;
Taper fingers and slender wrist;
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade;
So they painted the little maid.
On her hand a parrot green
Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold up the canvas full in view,—
Look! there’s a rent the light shines through,
Dark with a century’s fringe of dust,—
That was a Red-Coat’s rapier-thrust!
Such is the tale the lady old,
Dorothy’s daughter’s daughter told.
Who the painter was none may tell,—
One whose best was not over well;
Hard and dry, it must be confessed,
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed;
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,
Dainty colors of red and white,
And in her slender shape are seen
Hint and promise of stately mien.
Look not on her with eyes of scorn,—
Dorothy Q. was a lady born!
Ay! Since the galloping Normans came,
England’s annals have known her name;
And still to the three-hilled rebel town
Dear is that ancient name’s renown,
For many a civic wreath they won,
The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.
O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.!
Strange is the gift that I owe to you;
Such a gift as never a king
Save to daughter or son might bring,—
All my tenure of heart and hand,
All my title to house and land;
Mother and sister and child and wife
And joy and sorrow and death and life!
What if a hundred years ago
Those close-shut lips had answered No,
When forth the tremulous question came
That cost the maiden her Norman name,
And under the folds that look so still
The bodice swelled with the bosom’s thrill?
Should I be I, or would it be
One tenth another, to nine tenths me?
Soft is the breath of maiden’s Yes:
Not the light gossamer stirs with less;
But never a cable that holds so fast
Through all the battles of wave and blast,
And never an echo of speech or song
That lives in the babbling air so long!
There were tones in the voice that whispered then
You may hear to-day in a hundred men.
O lady and lover, how faint and far
Your images hover,—and here we are,
Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,—
Edward’s and Dorothy’s—all their own,—
A goodly record for Time to show
Of a syllable spoken so long ago!—
Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive
For the tender whisper that bade me live?
It shall be a blessing, my little maid!
It will heal the stab of the Red-Coat’s blade,
And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame,
And gild with a rhyme your household name;
So you shall smile on us brave and bright
As first you greeted the morning’s light,
And live untroubled by woes and fears
Through a second youth of a hundred years.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.

A REMINISCENCE

“C’etait en Avril, le Dimanche.”—Pailleron

’TWAS April; ’twas Sunday; the day was fair,—
Yes! sunny and fair.
And how happy was I!
You wore the white dress you loved to wear;
And two little flowers were hid in your hair—
Yes! in your hair—
On that day—gone by!
We sat on the moss; it was shady and dry;
Yes! shady and dry;
And we sat in the shadow.
We looked at the leaves, we looked at the sky;
We looked at the brook which bubbled near by,—
Yes! bubbled near by,
Through the quiet meadow.
A bird sang on the swinging vine,—
Yes! on the vine,—
And then,—sang not;
I took your little white hand in mine;
’Twas April; ’twas Sunday; ’twas warm sunshine,—
Yes! warm sunshine:
Have you forgot?
James Freeman Clarke.

THE AGE OF WISDOM

HO, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber’s shear,
All you wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin,—
Wait till you come to Forty Year.
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell’s window panes,—
Wait till you come to Forty Year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear—
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.
Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are grey,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere
Ever a month was passed away?
The reddest lips that ever have kissed,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper, and we not list,
Or look away, and never be missed,
Ere yet ever a month is gone.
Gillian’s dead, God rest her bier,
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian’s married, but I sit here
Alone and merry at Forty Year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
William Makepeace Thackeray.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE

A  STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is—
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here’s an inn, not rich and splendid
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is,
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach and dace:
All these you eat at Terrè’s tavern
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed a rich and savoury stew ’tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
The smiling red-cheeked “écaillère” is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terrè still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace;
He’d come and smile before your table
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter—nothing’s changed or older.
“How’s Monsieur Terrè, waiter, pray?”
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder—
“Monsieur is dead this many a day.”
“It is the lot of saint and sinner,
So honest Terrè’s run his race.”
“What will Monsieur require for dinner?”
“Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?”
“Oh, oui, Monsieur,” is the waiter’s answer,
“Quel vin, Monsieur, désire-t-il?”
“Tell me a good one.” “That I can, sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal.”
“So Terrè’s gone,” I say, and sink in
My old accustom’d corner place;
“He’s done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse.”
My old accustom’d corner here is,
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanish’d many a busy year is;
This well-known chair since last I took,
When first I saw ye, “cari luoghi,”
I’d scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days met here to dine?
Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty,
I’ll pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There’s Jack has made a wondrous marriage,
There’s laughing Tom is laughing yet,
There’s brave Augustus drives his carriage,
There’s poor old Fred in the “Gazette”;
On James’s head the grass is growing:
Good Lord! the world has wagged a-pace,
Since here we set the claret flowing
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting.
I mind me of the time that’s gone,
When here I’d sit, as now I’m sitting
In this same place—but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke, and smiled to cheer me—
There’s no one now to share my cup.
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes:
Fill up the lonely glass and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate’er the seal is,
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart whate’er the meat is.
—Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!
William Makepeace Thackeray.

AN INVITATION

TELL me, pretty one, where will you sail?
How shall our bark be steered, I pray?
Breezes flutter each silken veil,
Tell me, where will you go to-day?
My vessel’s helm is of ivory white,
Her bulwarks glisten with jewels bright
And red gold;
The sails are made from the wings of a dove,
And the man at the wheel is the god of love,
Blithe and bold.
Where shall we sail? ’Mid the Baltic’s foam?
Or over the broad Pacific roam?
Don’t refuse.
Say, shall we gather the sweet snow-flowers,
Or wander in rose-strewn Eastern bowers?
Only choose.
“Oh, carry me then,” cried the fair coquette,
“To the land where never I’ve journeyed yet,
To that shore
Where love is lasting, and change unknown,
And a man is faithful to one alone
Evermore.”
Go, seek that land for a year and a day,
At the end of the time you’ll be still far away
Pretty maid;—
’Tis a country unlettered in map or in chart,
’Tis a country that does not exist, sweetheart,
I’m afraid!
Translated from Théophile Gautier.

FANNY; OR THE BEAUTY AND THE BEE

FANNY, array’d in the bloom of her beauty,
Stood at the mirror, and toy’d with her hair,
Viewing her charms, till she felt it a duty
To own that like Fanny no woman was fair.
A Bee from the garden—oh, what could mislead him?—
Stray’d through the lattice new dainties to seek,
And lighting on Fanny, too busy to heed him,
Stung the sweet maid on her delicate cheek.
Smarting with pain, round the chamber she sought him,
Tears in her eyes, and revenge in her heart,
And angrily cried, when at length she had caught him,
“Die for the deed, little wretch that thou art!”
Stooping to crush him, the hapless offender
Pray’d her for mercy,—to hear and forgive;
“Oh, spare me!” cried he, “by those eyes in their splendour;
Oh, pity my fault, and allow me to live!
“Am I to blame that your cheeks are like roses,
Whose hues all the pride of the garden eclipse?
Lilies are hid in your mouth when it closes,
And odours of Araby breathe from your lips.”
Sweet Fanny relented: “’twere cruel to hurt you;
Small is the fault, pretty bee, you deplore;
And e’en were it greater, forgiveness is virtue;
Go forth and be happy—I blame you no more.”
Charles Mackay.

GARDEN FANCIES
THE FLOWER’S NAME

I

HERE’S the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since:
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!
She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.

II

Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe’s edge brushed the box:
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.
Roses ranged in a valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by!
She loves you, noble roses, I know;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!

III

This flower she stooped at, finger on lip,
Stooped over in doubt, as settling its claim;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name:
What a name! Was it love or praise?
Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name’s sake.

IV

Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her, one of these days,
To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;
But do not detain me now; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground,
And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.

V

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever!
Bud, if I kiss you, ’tis that you blow not:
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle
Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle—
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

VI

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee;
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
June’s twice June since she breathed it with me?
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,
Treasure my lady’s lightest footfall!
—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces—
Roses, you are not so fair after all!
Robert Browning.

A POEM OF EVERY-DAY LIFE

HE tore him from the merry throng
Within the billiard hall;
He was gotten up regardlessly
To pay his party call.
His thoughts were dire and dark within,
Discourteous to fate:
“Ah, me! these social debts incurred
Are hard to liquidate.”
His boots were slender, long and trim;
His collar tall and swell;
His hats were made by Dunlap,
And his coats were cut by Bell;
A symphony in black and white,
“Of our set” the pride,
Yet he lingered on his way—
He would that he had died.
His feet caressed the lonely way,
The pave gave forth no sound;
They seemed in pitying silence clothed
West-End-ward he was bound.
He approached the mansion stealthily,
The step looked cold and chill;
He glanced into the vestibule,
But all was calm and still.
He fingered nervously the bell,
His card-case in his hand;
He saw the mirror in the hall—
Solemn, stately, grand.
Suddenly his spirits rose;
The drawing-room looked dim;
The menial filled his soul with joy
With “No, there’s no one in.”
With fiendish glee he stole away;
His heart was gay and light,
Happy that he went and paid
His party call that night.
His steps turned to the billiard hall,
Blissfully he trod;
He entered: “What, returned so soon?”
Replied: “She’s out, thank God!”
Sixteen cues were put to rest
Within their upright beds,
And sixteen different tiles were placed
On sixteen level heads;
Sixteen men upon the street
In solid phalanx all,
And sixteen men on duty bent
To pay their party call.
When the fairest of her sex came home
At early dawn, I ween,
She slowly looked the cards all out—
They numbered seventeen.
With calm relief she raised her eyes,
Filled with grateful light,
“Oh, merciful Fate, look down and see
What I’ve escaped this night!”
Albert Riddle.

LOVE DISPOSED OF

HERE goes Love! Now cut him clear,
A weight about his neck:
If he linger longer here,
Our ship will be a wreck.
Overboard! Overboard!
Down let him go!
In the deep he may sleep
Where the corals grow.
He said he’d woo the gentle breeze,
A bright tear in her eye;
But she was false or hard to please,
Or he has told a lie.
Overboard! overboard!
Down in the sea
He may find a truer mind,
Where the mermaids be.
He sang us many a merry song
While the breeze was kind;
But he has been lamenting long
The falseness of the wind.
Overboard! overboard!
Under the wave
Let him sing where smooth shells ring
In the ocean’s cave.
He may struggle; he may weep;
We’ll be stern and cold;
His grief will find, within the deep,
More tears than can be told.
He has gone overboard!
We will float on;
We shall find a truer wind,
Now that he is gone.
Robert Traill Spence Lowell.

MABEL, IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

FAIREST of the fairest, rival of the rose,
That is Mabel of the Hills, as everybody knows.
Do you ask me near what stream this sweet floweret grows?
That’s an ignorant question, sir, as everybody knows.
Ask you what her age is, reckoned as time goes?
Just the age of beauty, as everybody knows.
Is she tall as Rosalind, standing on her toes?
She is just the perfect height, as everybody knows.
What’s the color of her eyes, when they ope or close?
Just the color they should be, as everybody knows.
Is she lovelier dancing, or resting in repose?
Both are radiant pictures, as everybody knows.
Do her ships go sailing on every wind that blows?
She is richer far than that, as everybody knows.
Has she scores of lovers, heaps of bleeding beaux?
That question’s quite superfluous, as everybody knows.
I could tell you something, if I only chose!—
But what’s the use of telling what everybody knows?
James Thomas Fields.

THE COQUETTE
A PORTRAIT

“YOU’RE clever at drawing, I own,”
Said my beautiful cousin Lisette,
As we sat by the window alone,
“But say, can you paint a Coquette?”
“She’s painted already,” quoth I;
“Nay, nay!” said the laughing Lisette,
“Now none of your joking—but try
And paint me a thorough Coquette.”
“Well, Cousin,” at once I began
In the ear of the eager Lisette,
“I’ll paint you as well as I can,
That wonderful thing, a Coquette.
“She wears a most beautiful face”
(“Of course,” said the pretty Lisette),
“And isn’t deficient in grace,
Or else she were not a Coquette.
“And then she is daintily made”
(A smile from the dainty Lisette)
“By people expert in the trade
Of forming a proper Coquette.
“She’s the winningest ways with the beaux”
(“Go on!” said the winning Lisette),
“But there isn’t a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!
“She knows how to weep and to sigh”
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
“But her weeping is all in my eye—
Not that of the cunning Coquette!
“In short, she’s a creature of art”
(“Oh, hush!” said the frowning Lisette),
“With merely the ghost of a heart—
Enough for a thorough Coquette.
“And yet I could easily prove”
(“Now don’t!” said the angry Lisette),
“The lady is always in love—
In love with herself—the Coquette!
“There—do not be angry—you know,
My dear little Cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago,
To paint you—a thorough Coquette!”
John Godfrey Saxe.

JUSTINE, YOU LOVE ME NOT!

“Helas! vous ne m’aimez pas.”—Piron.

I  know, Justine, you speak me fair
As often as we meet;
And ’tis a luxury, I swear,
To hear a voice so sweet;
And yet it does not please me quite,
The civil way you’ve got;
For me you’re something too polite—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, you never scold
At aught that I may do:
If I am passionate or cold,
’Tis all the same to you.
“A charming temper,” say the men,
“To smooth a husband’s lot”:
I wish ’twere ruffled now and then—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, you wear a smile
As beaming as the sun;
But who supposes all the while
It shines for only one?
Though azure skies are fair to see,
A transient cloudy spot
In yours would promise more to me—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine, you make my name
Your eulogistic theme,
And say—if any chance to blame—
You hold me in esteem.
Such words, for all their kindly scope,
Delight me not a jot;
Just as you would have praised the Pope—
Justine, you love me not!
I know, Justine—for I have heard
What friendly voices tell—
You do not blush to say the word,
“You like me passing well;”
And thus the fatal sound I hear
That seals my lonely lot:
There’s nothing now to hope or fear—
Justine, you love me not!
John Godfrey Saxe.

SING HEIGH-HO!