The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 19

And yet, perhaps, if they were moved, And stood together day by day, Their love had not so constant proved, Nor would they still have smiled so gay.

His hand the Shepherd might have kissed The match-box Angel's heart to win; The Shepherdess, his love have missed, And flirted with the Mandarin.

But on my mantel-piece they stand, While all its length between them lies; He throws a kiss with graceful hand, She glances back with bashful eyes.

Mildred Howells [1872-

ON THE FLY-LEAF OF A BOOK OF OLD PLAYS

At Cato's Head in Russell Street These leaves she sat a-st.i.tching; I fancy she was trim and neat, Blue-eyed and quite bewitching.

Before her on the street below, All powder, ruffs, and laces, There strutted idle London beaux To ogle pretty faces;

While, filling many a Sedan chair With monstrous hoop and feather, In paint and powder London's fair Went trooping past together.

Swift, Addison, and Pope, mayhap They sauntered slowly past her, Or printer's boy, with gown and cap, For Steele, went trotting faster.

For beau nor wit had she a look; Nor lord nor lady minding, She bent her head above this book, Attentive to her binding.

And one stray thread of golden hair, Caught on her nimble fingers, Was st.i.tched within this volume, where Until to-day it lingers.

Past and forgotten, beaux and fair, Wigs, powder, all outdated; A queer antique, the Sedan chair, Pope, stiff and antiquated.

Yet as I turn these odd, old plays, This single stray lock finding, I'm back in those forgotten days, And watch her at her binding.

Walter Learned [1847-1915]

THE TALENTED MAN Letter From A Lady In London To A Lady At Lausanne

Dear Alice! you'll laugh when you know it,-- Last week, at the d.u.c.h.ess's ball, I danced with the clever new poet,-- You've heard of him,--Tully St. Paul.

Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic; I wish you had seen Lady Anne!

It really was very romantic, He is such a talented man!

He came up from Brazen Nose College, Just caught, as they call it, this spring; And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge Of every conceivable thing.

Of science and logic he chatters, As fine and as fast as he can; Though I am no judge of such matters, I'm sure he's a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful;-- Not stories or jests, dear, for you; The jests are exceedingly spiteful, The stories not always quite true.

Perhaps to be kind and veracious May do pretty well at Lausanne; But it never would answer,--good gracious!

Chez nous--in a talented man.

He sneers,--how my Alice would scold him!-- At the bliss of a sigh or a tear; He laughed--only think!--when I told him How we cried o'er Trevelyan last year; I vow I was quite in a pa.s.sion; I broke all the sticks of my fan; But sentiment's quite out of fas.h.i.+on, It seems, in a talented man.

Lady Bab, who is terribly moral, Has told me that Tully is vain, And apt--which is silly--to quarrel, And fond--which is sad--of champagne.

I listened, and doubted, dear Alice, For I saw, when my Lady began, It was only the Dowager's malice;-- She does hate a talented man!

He's hideous, I own it. But fame, love, Is all that these eyes can adore; He's lame,--but Lord Byron was lame, love, And dumpy,--but so is Tom Moore.

Then his voice,--such a voice! my sweet creature, It's like your Aunt Lucy's toucan: But oh! what's a tone or a feature, When once one's a talented man?

My mother, you know, all the season, Has talked of Sir Geoffrey's estate; And truly, to do the fool reason, He has been less horrid of late.

But to-day, when we drive in the carriage, I'll tell her to lay down her plan;-- If ever I venture on marriage, It must be a talented man!

P.S.--I have found, on reflection, One fault in my friend,--entre nous; Without it, he'd just be perfection;-- Poor fellow, he has not a sou!

And so, when he comes in September To shoot with my uncle, Sir Dan, I've promised mamma to remember He's only a talented man!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]

A LETTER OF ADVICE From Miss Medora Trevilian, At Padua, To Miss Araminta Vavasour, In London

"Enfin, Monsieur, homme aimable; Voila pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer."--Scribe

You tell me you're promised a lover, My own Araminta, next week; Why cannot my fancy discover The hue of his coat, and his cheek?

Alas! if he look like another, A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fas.h.i.+on, Taught us both how to sing and to speak, And we loved one another with pa.s.sion, Before we had been there a week: You gave me a ring for a token; I wear it wherever I go; I gave you a chain,--it is broken?

My own Araminta, say "No!"

O think of our favorite cottage, And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!

How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, And drank of the stream from the brook; How fondly our loving lips faltered, "What further can grandeur bestow?"

My heart is the same;--is yours altered?

My own Araminta, say "No!"

Remember the thrilling romances We read on the bank in the glen; Remember the suitors our fancies Would picture for both of us then; They wore the red cross on their shoulder, They had vanquished and pardoned their foe-- Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?

My own Araminta, say "No!"

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage, Drove off with your cousin Justine, You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, And whispered "How base she has been!"

You said you were sure it would kill you, If ever your husband looked so; And you will not apostatize,--will you?

My own Araminta, say "No!"

When I heard I was going abroad, love, I thought I was going to die; We walked arm in arm to the road, love, We looked arm in arm to the sky; And I said, "When a foreign postilion Has hurried me off to the Po, Forget not Medora Trevilian:-- My own Araminta, say "No!"

We parted! but sympathy's fetters Reach far over valley and hill; I muse o'er your exquisite letters, And feel that your heart is mine still; And he who would share it with me, love,-- The richest of treasures below,-- If he's not what Orlando should be, love, My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, If he comes to you riding a cob, If he talks of his baking or brewing, If he puts up his feet on the hob, If he ever drinks port after dinner, If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself "Thompson" or "Skinner,"

My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he studies the news in the papers While you are preparing the tea, If he talks of the damps or the vapors While moonlight lies soft on the sea, If he's sleepy while you are capricious, If he has not a musical "Oh!"

If he does not call Werther delicious,-- My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he ever Sets foot in the city Among the stockbrokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity, If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses, If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses,-- My own Araminta, say "No!"