Second Book of Verse Part 18

Cometh before our misty eyes That other little face; And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, That love in the old embrace.

Dearest, the Christ-Child walks to-night, Bringing His peace to men; And He bringeth to you and to me the light Of the old, old years again:

Bringeth the peace of long ago When a wee one clasped your knee And lisped of the morrow,--dear one, you know,-- And here come back is he!

Dearest, 'tis sometimes hard to say That all is for the best, For, often in a grievous way, G.o.d's will is manifest.

But in the grace of this holy night That bringeth us back our child, Let us see that the ways of G.o.d are right, And so be reconciled.

THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE.

IN former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth, And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth; And my career From year to year Was full of cheer And things, Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings; But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the scene!

Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene: Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart, Because, alas! it hath come to pa.s.s my daughter's learned Delsarte.

In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me, She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see,-- Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling-block to t'other, The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother.

Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouth Which certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth.

If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart, What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte?

In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth, But now you see Revealed in me The gloomiest bard on earth.

I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life, But rather those depressing woes with which the present's rife.

Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who's now a fas.h.i.+on-plate, One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate: This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, Delsarte.

Where'er she goes, She loves to pose, In cla.s.sic att.i.tudes, And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; And she, my child, Who all so wild, So helpless and so sweet, That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands and feet, Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands.

Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, And I utter one word--it is commonly heard--derogatory to Delsarte.

In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; But now these wise Folks criticise My figure and my face, And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical ba.s.s.

Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pa.s.s on that antique,-- With l.u.s.ty ba.s.s and charms of face and figure will I part Ere they extort this grand old wart to placat their Delsarte.

Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who've known my Muse before, When by this rhyme you see that I'm not in it any more.

Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; The old-time bard Of pork and lard Is plainly out of sight.

All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, While Lachesis brews For the poor old Muse A portion of scalding soup.

Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: "He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter learned Delsarte."

b.u.t.tERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT.

b.u.t.tercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,-- These three bloomed in a garden spot; And once, all merry with song and play, A little one heard three voices say: "s.h.i.+ne or shadow, summer or spring, O thou child with the tangled hair And laughing eyes, we three shall bring Each an offering, pa.s.sing fair!"

The little one did not understand; But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.

b.u.t.tercup gambolled all day long, Sharing the little one's mirth and song; Then, stealing along on misty gleams, Poppy came, bringing the sweetest dreams, Playing and dreaming, that was all, Till once the sleeper would not awake; Kissing the little face under the pall, We thought of the words the third flower spake, And we found, betimes, in a hallowed spot, The solace and peace of Forget-me-not.

b.u.t.tercup shareth the joy of day, Glinting with gold the hours of play; Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose, When the hands would fold and the eyes would close.

And after it all,--the play and the sleep Of a little life,--what cometh then?

To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep, A wee flower bringeth G.o.d's peace again: Each one serveth its tender lot,-- b.u.t.tercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not.