WHEN you love—as all men will—
Sing the theme of your devotion,
Sue—and vow—and worship still—
Overflow with deep emotion,
Bow to Cupid’s sweet decrees,
Lightly wear the happy fetter,
Bend the knee and plead! But please,
Do not write your love a letter!
Ah! most tempting it may be:
Ink flows free—and pens will write,
And your passion fain you’d see
Plainly mapped in black and white.
Yet refrain from shedding ink,
If you can:—’tis wiser—better.
Ere you pen a sentence, think!
Do not write your love a letter.
Hearts may cool, and views may change—
Other scenes may seem inviting,
But a heart can’t safely range
If committed ’tis to writing.
What you’ve written is a writ,
Holds you closely as a debtor.
Will she spare you? Not a bit!
Do not write your love a letter!
Think of Breach of Promise cause,
Think of barristers provoking,
Leading you to slips and flaws,
Turning all your love to joking.
If you’ve written aught, they’ll be
Safe to find it as a setter—
Then you’ll wish you’d hearkened me—
Do not write your love a letter!
Oh, those letters read in Court!
How the tender things seem stupid!
How deep feeling seems but sport!
How young Momus trips up Cupid!
Take my warning then—or soon,
O’er your folly you’ll be fretter,
Saying, “Why, poor, foolish spoon,
Did I write my love a letter?”
Thomas Hood, Jr.

AT THE LATTICE

BEHIND the curtain,
With glance uncertain,
Peeps pet Florence as I gaily ride;
Half demurely,
But, though purely
Most, most surely
Wishing she were riding, riding by my side.
In leafy alleys,
Where sunlight dallies,
Pleasant were it, bonnie, to be riding rein by rein;
And where summer tosses,
All about in bosses,
Velvet verdant mosses,
Still more pleasant, surely, to dismount again.
O thou Beauty!
Hanging ripe and fruity
At the muslined lattice in the drooping eve,
Whisper from the casement
If that blushing face meant,
“At the cottage basement,
Gallant, halt, I come to thee; I come to never leave.”
But if those coy lashes
Stir for whoso dashes
Past the scented window in the fading light,
Close the lattice, sweetest;
Darkness were discreetest;
And, with bridle fleetest,
I will gallop onwards, unattended through the night.
Alfred Austin.

FRENCH WITH A MASTER

TEACH you French? I will, my dear!
Sit and con your lesson here.
What did Adam say to Eve?
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Don’t pronounce the last word long;
Make it short to suit the song;
Rhyme it to your flowing sleeve,
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Sleeve, I said, but what’s the harm
If I really meant your arm?
Mine shall twine it (by your leave),
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Learning French is full of slips;
Do as I do with the lips;
Here’s the right way, you perceive,
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
French is always spoken best
Breathing deeply from the chest;
Darling, does your bosom heave?
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Now, my dainty little sprite,
Have I taught your lesson right?
Then what pay shall I receive?
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Will you think me overbold
If I linger to be told
Whether you yourself believe
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Pretty pupil, when you say
All this French to me to-day,
Do you mean it, or deceive?
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Tell me, may I understand,
When I press your little hand,
That our hearts together cleave?
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Have you in your tresses room
For some orange-buds to bloom?
May I such a garland weave?
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Or, if I presume too much
Teaching French by sense of touch,
Grant me pardon and reprieve!
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Sweetheart, no! you cannot go!
Let me sit and hold you so;
Adam did the same to Eve,—
Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre.
Theodore Tilton.

ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA

THE cunning hand that carved this face,
A little helmeted Minerva—
The hand, I say, ere Phidias wrought,
Had lost its subtle skill and fervour.
Who was he? Was he glad or sad?
Who knew to carve in such a fashion?
Perchance he shaped this dainty head
For some brown girl that Scorned his passion.
But he is dust: we may not know
His happy or unhappy story:
Nameless and dead these thousand years,
His work outlives him—there’s his glory!
Both man and jewel lay in earth
Beneath a lava-buried city;
The thousand summers came and went,
With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.
The years wiped out the man, but left
The jewel fresh as any blossom.
Till some Visconti dug it up,
To rise and fall on Mabel’s bosom.
O Roman brother! see how Time
Your gracious handiwork has guarded;
See how your loving, patient art
Has come, at last, to be rewarded.
Who would not suffer slights of men
And pangs of hopeless passion also,
To have his carven agate-stone
On such a bosom rise and fall so!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

THE LUNCH

A  GOTHIC window, where a damask curtain
Made the blank daylight shadowy and uncertain:
A slab of agate ore four Eagle-talons
Held trimly up and neatly taught to balance:
A porcelain dish, o’er which in many a cluster
Black grapes hung down, dead ripe and without lustre:
A melon cut in thin, delicious slices:
A cake that seemed mosaic-work in spices:
Two China cups with golden tulips sunny,
And rich inside with chocolate like honey:
And she and I the banquet-scene completing
With dreamy words—and very pleasant eating.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

THE WITCH IN THE GLASS

“MY mother says I must not pass
Too near that glass;
She is afraid that I will see
A little witch that looks like me,
With a red, red mouth to whisper low
The very thing I should not know!”
“Alack for all your mother’s care!
A bird of the air,
A wistful wind, or (I suppose)
Sent by some hapless boy—a rose,
With breath too sweet, will whisper low
The very thing you should not know!”
Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt.

TO PHŒBE

“GENTLE, modest, little flower,
Sweet epitome of May,
Love me but for half-an-hour,
Love me, love me, little Fay.”
Sentences so fiercely flaming
In your tiny shell-like ear,
I should always be exclaiming,
If I loved you, Phœbe, dear!
“Smiles that thrill from any distance
Shed upon me while I sing!
Please ecstaticise existence;
Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!”
Words like these, outpouring sadly,
You’d perpetually hear,
If I loved you, fondly, madly;—
But I do not, Phœbe, dear!
William Schwenck Gilbert.

MY LOVE AND MY HEART

OH, the days were ever shiny
When I ran to meet my love;
When I press’d her hand so tiny
Through her tiny tiny glove.
Was I very deeply smitten?
Oh, I loved like anything!
But my love she is a kitten,
And my heart’s a ball of string.
She was pleasingly poetic,
And she loved my little rhymes;
For our tastes were sympathetic,
In the old and happy times.
Oh, the ballads I have written,
And have taught my love to sing!
But my love she is a kitten,
And my heart’s a ball of string.
Would she listen to my offer,
On my knees I would impart
A sincere and ready proffer
Of my hand and of my heart.
And below her dainty mitten
I would fix a wedding ring—
But my love she is a kitten,
And my heart’s a ball of string.
Take a warning, happy lover,
From the moral that I show;
Or too late you may discover
What I learn’d a month ago.
We are scratch’d or we are bitten
By the pets to whom we cling.
Oh, my love she is a kitten,
And my heart’s a ball of string.
Henry S. Leigh.

TO A COUNTRY COUSIN

CRUEL Cousin Kate, you ask me
For a lyric or a lay.
How tyrannical to task me,
Cousin Kate, in such a way.
Pardon me, I pray, and pity—
(Oh, do anything but frown!)
For I can’t be wise or witty
In an album out of town
No, my Pegasus will canter
Only here on civic stones;
In the country I instanter
Come to grief and broken bones.
Be it mine to sing the city,
Where I seek my mild renown;—
But I can’t be wise or witty
In an album out of town.
Small my power and small my will is
Rural sympathies to win;
Ludgate my sublimest hill is,
And my fields are Lincoln’s Inn
All the Muses in committee,
Pouring inspiration down,
Cannot make me wise or witty
In an album out of town.
London life in many phases
I describe for Cockney friends;
Lead me out among the daisies
And my versifying ends.
I can favor with a ditty
Jones, and Robinson, and Brown;
But I can’t be wise or witty
In an album out of town.
Cousin, hear my supplication;
Give me something else to do.
Is there aught in all creation
I would not attempt for you?
Ask my life, my cruel Kitty:
Bid me hang, or bid me drown;
But I can’t be wise or witty
In an album out of town.
Henry S. Leigh.

THE FAMILY FOOL

OH! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,
If you listen to popular rumour;
From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright,
And he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;
Yet though people forgive his transgression,
There are one or two rules that all Family Fools
Must observe if they love their profession.
There are one or two rules,
Half-a-dozen, maybe,
That all family fools,
Of whatever degree,
Must observe, if they love their profession.
If you wish to succeed as a jester, you’ll need
To consider each person’s auricular:
What is all right for B. would quite scandalize C.
(For C. is so very particular);
And D. may be dull, and E.’s very thick skull
Is as empty of brains as a ladle;
While F. is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,
That he’s known your best joke from his cradle!
When your humour they flout,
You can’t let yourself go;
And it does put you out
When a person says, “Oh!
I have known that old joke from my cradle!”
If your master is surly, from getting up early
(And tempers are short in the morning),
An inopportune joke is enough to provoke
Him to give you, at once, a month’s warning.
Then if you refrain, he is at you again,
For he likes to get value for money,
He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,
“If you know that you’re paid to be funny?”
It adds to the tasks
Of a merryman’s place,
When your principal asks,
With a scowl on his face,
If you know that you’re paid to be funny?
Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.—
Oh! beware of his anger provoking
Better not pull his hair—don’t stick pins in his chair;
He won’t understand practical joking.
If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,
You may get a bland smile from these sages;
But should it, by chance, be imported from France,
Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!
It’s a general rule,
Though your zeal it may quench
If the Family Fool
Makes a joke that’s too French,
Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!
Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack,
And your senses with toothache you’re losing,
Don’t be mopy and flat—they don’t fine you for that
If you’re properly quaint and amusing!
Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day
And took with her your trifle of money;
Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re exceedingly kind—
They don’t blame you—as long as you’re funny!
It’s a comfort to feel
If your partner should flit,
Though you suffer a deal,
They don’t mind it a bit—
They don’t blame you—so long as you’re funny!
W. S. Gilbert.

AN INTERLUDE

IN the greenest growth of the May-time,
I rode where the woods were wet,
Between the dawn and the day-time;
The spring was glad that we met.
There was something the season wanted,
Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet;
The breath at your lips that panted,
The pulse of the grass at your feet.
You came, and the sun came after,
And the green grew golden above;
And the May-flowers lightened with laughter,
And the meadow-sweet shook with love.
Your feet in the full-grown grasses
Moved soft as a weak wind blows;
You passed me as April passes,
With face made out of a rose.
By the stream where the stems were slender,
Your light foot paused at the sedge;
It might be to watch the tender
Light leaves in the spring-time hedge.
On boughs that the sweet month blanches
With flowery frost of May;
It might be a bird in the branches,
It might be a thorn in the way.
I waited to watch you linger,
With foot drawn back from the dew,
Till a sunbeam straight like a finger
Struck sharp through the leaves at you.
And a bird overhead sang “Follow,”
And a bird to the right sang “Here”;
And the arch of the leaves was hollow,
And the meaning of May was clear.
I saw where the sun’s hand pointed,
I knew what the bird’s note said;
By the dawn and the dew fall anointed,
You were queen by the gold on your head.
As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember
Recalls a regret of the sun,
I remember, forget, and remember
What love saw done and undone.
I remember the way we parted,
The day and the way we met;
You hoped we were both broken-hearted,
And knew we should both forget.
And May with her world in flower
Seemed still to murmur and smile
As you murmured and smiled for an hour;
I saw you twice at the stile.
A hand like a white-wood blossom
You lifted and waved, and passed,
With head hung down to the bosom,
And pale, as it seemed, to the last.
And the best and the worst of this is,
That neither is most to blame,
If you’ve forgotten my kisses,
And I’ve forgotten your name.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.

A MATCH

IF love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pleasure or grey grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.
If you were Life, my darling,
And I, your love, were Death,
We’d shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the wreath
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were Life, my darling,
And I, your love, were Death.
If you were thrall to Sorrow,
And I were page to Joy,
We’d play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons,
And tears of night and morrow,
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to Sorrow,
And I were page to Joy.
If you were April’s lady,
And I were lord in May,
We’d throw with leaves for hours,
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady,
And night were bright like day;
If you were April’s lady,
And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure
And I were king of pain,
We’d hunt down Love together,
Pluck out his flying feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.

CAPRICE

I

SHE hung the cage at the window:
“If he goes by,” she said,
“He will hear my robin singing,
And when he lifts his head,
I shall be sitting here to sew,
And he will bow to me, I know.”
The robin sang a love-sweet song,
The young man raised his head;
The maiden turned away and blushed:
“I am a fool!” she said,
And went on ’broidering in silk
A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.

II

The young man loitered slowly
By the house three times that day;
She took her bird from the window:
“He need not look this way.”
She sat at her piano long,
And sighed, and played a death-sad song.
But when the day was done, she said,
“I wish that he would come!
Remember, Mary, if he calls
To-night—I’m not at home.”
So when he rang, she went—the elf!—
She went and let him in herself.

III

They sang full long together
Their songs love-sweet, death-sad;
The robin woke from his slumber,
And rang out, clear and glad.
“Now go!” she coldly said; “’tis late”;
And followed him—to latch the gate.
He took the rosebud from her hair,
While, “You shall not!” she said;
He closed her hand within his own,
And, while her tongue forbade,
Her will was darkened in the eclipse
Of blinding love upon his lips.
William Dean Howells.

THE MINUET

GRANDMA told me all about it,
Told me so I couldn’t doubt it,
How she danced—my Grandma danced!—
Long ago.
How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
Turning out her little toes;
How she slowly leaned and rose—
Long ago.
Grandma’s hair was bright and sunny;
Dimpled cheeks, too—ah, how funny!
Really quite a pretty girl,
Long ago.
Bless her! why she wears a cap,
Grandma does, and takes a nap
Every single day; and yet
Grandma danced the minuet
Long ago.
Now she sits there rocking, rocking,
Always knitting Grandpa’s stocking—
(Every girl was taught to knit
Long ago),
Yet her figure is so neat,
And her ways so staid and sweet,
I can almost see her now
Bending to her partner’s bow,
Long ago.
Grandma says our modern jumping,
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping,
Would have shocked the gentle folk
Long ago.
No—they moved with stately grace,
Everything in proper place,
Gliding slowly forward, then
Slowly curtseying back again.
Long ago.
Modern ways are quite alarming,
Grandma says; but boys were charming—
Girls and boys I mean, of course—
Long ago.
Bravely modest, grandly shy,—
She would like to have us try
Just to feel like those who met
In the graceful minuet
Long ago.
With the minuet in fashion,
Who could fly into a passion?
All would wear the calm they wore
Long ago.
In time to come, if I, perchance,
Should tell my grandchild of our dance,
I should really like to say,
“We did it, dear, in some such way,
Long ago.”
Mary Mapes Dodge.

A STREET SKETCH

UPON the Kerb, a maiden neat—
Her hazel eyes are passing sweet—
There stands and waits in dire distress:
The muddy road is pitiless,
And ’busses thunder down the street!
A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat;
Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet
Peep out, beneath her kilted dress,
Upon the Kerb.
She’ll first advance, and then retreat,
Half-frightened by a hansom fleet.
She looks around, I must confess,
With marvellous coquettishness!—
Then droops her eyes and looks discreet,
Upon the Kerb!
J. Ashby-Sterry.

SAINT MAY
A CITY LYRIC

ST. ALOYS THE GREAT is both mouldy and grim,
Not knowing the road there, you’ll long have to search
To find your way into this old city church;
Yet on fine Sunday mornings I frequently stray
There to see a new saint, whom I’ve christened St. May.
Of saints I’ve seen plenty in churches before—
In Florence or Venice they’re there by the score;
Agnese, Maria—the rest I forget—
By Titian, Bassano, and brave Tintoret:
They none can compare, though they’re well in their way,
In maidenly grace with my dainty St. May.
She’s young for a saint, for she’s scarcely eighteen,
And ne’er could wear peas in those dainty bottines;
Her locks are not shaven, and ’twould be a sin
To wear a hair-shirt next that delicate skin;
Save diagonal stripes on a dress of light gray,
Stripes ne’er have been borne by bewitching St. May.
Then she’s almost too plump and too round for a saint,
With sweet little dimples that Millais might paint;
She has no mediæval nor mortified mien,
No wimple of yellow, nor background of green,
A nimbus of hair throws its sunshiny ray
Of glory around the fair face of St. May.
What surquayne or partlet could look better than
My saint’s curly jacket of black Astracan?
What coif than her bonnet—a triumph of skill—
Or alb than her petticoat edged with a frill?
So sober, yet smiling—so grave, yet so gay,
Oh, where is a saint like my charming St. May?
J. Ashby-Sterry.

PET’S PUNISHMENT