The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 21

For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Upon the lawn were lying; A magazine, a tumbled shawl, Round which the swifts were flying;

And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A heap of rainbow knitting, Where, blinking in her pleased repose, A Persian cat was sitting.

"A place to love in,--live,--for aye, If we too, like t.i.thonus, Could find some G.o.d to stretch the gray Scant life the Fates have thrown us;

"But now by steam we run our race, With b.u.t.toned heart and pocket, Our Love's a gilded, surplus grace,-- Just like an empty locket!

"'The time is out of joint.' Who will, May strive to make it better; For me, this warm old window-sill, And this old dusty letter."

II "Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, And Mother's storing Apples,--Prue and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam: But we shall meet before a Week is gone,-- ''Tis a long Lane that has no Turning,' John!

"Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile-- We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile; Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John!

"John, she's so smart,--with every Ribbon new, Flame-colored Sack, and Crimson Padesoy: As proud as proud; and has the Vapors too, Just like My Lady;--calls poor Sam a Boy, And vows no Sweet-heart's worth the Thinking-on Till he's past Thirty... I know better, John!

"My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you; And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through.

See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone!

Look in this corner,--mind you find it, John!

III This was the matter of the note,-- A long-forgot deposit, Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat Deep in a fragrant closet,

Piled with a dapper Dresden world,-- Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses,-- Bonzes with squat legs undercurled, And great jars filled with roses.

Ah, heart that wrote! Ah, lips that kissed!

You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message!

A reverent one. Though we to-day Distrust beliefs and powers, The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers....

I need not search too much to find Whose lot it was to send it, That feel upon me yet the kind, Soft hand of her who penned it;

And see, through two-score years of smoke, In by-gone, quaint apparel, s.h.i.+ne from yon time-black Norway oak The face of Patience Caryl,--

The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed; The gray gown, primly flowered; The spotless, stately coif whose crest Like Hector's horse-plume towered;

And still the sweet half-solemn look Where some past thought was clinging, As when one shuts a serious book To hear the thrushes singing.

I kneel to you! Of those you were, Whose kind old hearts grow mellow,-- Whose fair old faces grow more fair, As Point and Flanders yellow;

Whom some old store of garnered grief, Their placid temples shading, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf With tender tints of fading.

Peace to your soul! You died unwed-- Despite this loving letter.

And what of John? The less that's said Of John, I think, the better.

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN

The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die.

Ungentle men! They cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, Them any harm; alas! nor could Thy death to them do any good.

I'm sure I never wished them ill, Nor do I for all this; nor will: But, if my simple prayers may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But O my fears!

It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain; Else men are made their deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean; their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain, There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin.

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning, I remember well, Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me: nay, and I know What he said then--I'm sure I do.

Said he, "Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer!"

But Sylvio soon had me beguiled: This waxed tame, while he grew wild, And, quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart.

Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this; and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game: it seemed to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me!

Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it, too, might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he.

But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nursed; And as it grew, so every day, It waxed more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a breath! and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft, And white, shall I say? than my hand-- Nay, any lady's of the land!

It was a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet.

With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when't had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring-time of the year It loved only to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade, It like a bank of lilies laid.

Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed; And then to me 'twould boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip.

But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill; And its pure virgin lips to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint And die as calmly as a saint!

See how it weeps! the tears do come Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.

So weeps the wounded balsam; so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It, till it doth overflow, with mine, Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet fawn is vanished to Whither the swans and turtles go; In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure.

O, do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die.

First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble; and withal Let it be weeping too; but there The engraver sure his art may spare; For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone, Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there; Then at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES

'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purred applause.