Puslapio vaizdai

The ladies of St. James's !

They ’re painted to the eyes ; Their white it stays for ever,

Their red it never dies : But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

Her color comes and goes ; It trembles to a lily,

It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's !

You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches,

Their phrases are so grand : But Phyīlida, my Phyllida !

Her shy and simple words Are clear as after rain-drops

The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's!

They have their fits and freaks ; They smile on you — for seconds,

They frown on you — for weeks : But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,

Is always true — and mine. My Phyllida ! my Phyllida !

I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,

And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties

Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida — for Phyllida

Is all the world to me !

That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards ;

No H-Lts, no K-G-N P-Ls were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy Tonsons and your CURLLS ;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The AUTHOR in a Sheep-skin Back;
Then SAVAGE and his Brother-Sinners
In Porridge Island div'd for Dinners ;
Or doz’d on Covent Garden Bulks,
And liken'd Letters to the Hulks ;
You know that by-gone Time, I say,
That aimless easy-moral'd Day,
When rosy Morn found MADAM still
Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille,
When good Sir John reelid Home to

Bed, From Pontack's or the Shakespear's Head ; When TRIP convey'd his Master's Cloaths, And took his Titles and his Oaths ; While Betty, in a cast Brocade, Ogled My LORD at Masquerade ; When GARRICK play'd the guilty Richard, Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. PRITCHARD; When FootE grimaced his snarling Wit ; When CHURCHILL bullied in the Pit ; When the Cuzzoni sang

But there ! The further Catalogue I spare, Having no Purpose to eclipse That tedious Tale of Homer's Ships ; This is the Man that drew it all From Pannier Alley to the Mall, Then turn’d and drew it once again From Bird - Cage - Walk to Leuknor's

Lane ; Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and

Sots ;
Its brawling Quacks, its starveling Scots ;
Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,

Its Splendor, Squalor, Shame, Disease ;
Its quicquid agunt Homines ;
Nor yet omitted to pourtray
Furens quid possit Foemina ; -
In short, held up to ev'ry Class
NATURE's unflatt'ring looking-Glass ;
And, from his Canvas, spoke to All
The Message of a JUVENAL.




DEAR Cosmopolitan, — I know
I should address you a Rondeau,
Or else announce what I've to say
At least en Ballade fratriseé;
But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,
And take to simple Hudibrasticks,
Why should I choose another Way,
When this was good enough for Gay?

You love, my FRIEND, with me I think,
That ge of Lustre and of Link ;
Of Chelsea China and long “s”es,
Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses ;


Take Him. His Merits most aver : His weak Point is — his Chronicler !

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The secret of thy proud aërial way,
Or read in thy mute face the soul which

lay A prisoner there in chains of tenderness. -Lo, thou art captured. In my hand to

day I hold thee, and awhile thou deignest to

be Pleased with my jesses. I would fain be

guile My foolish heart to think thou lovest me.

See, I dare not love thee quite. A little while And thou shalt sail back heavenwards.

Woe is me!

her cry.


THERE is no laughter in the natural world Of beast or fish or bird, though no sad

doubt Of their futurity to them unfurled Has dared to check the mirth-compelling

shout. The lion roars his solemn thunder out To the sleeping woods. The eagle screams Even the lark must strain a serious throat To hurl his blest defiance at the sky. Fear, anger, jealousy, have found a voice. Love's pain or rapture the brute bosoms

swell. Nature has symbols for her nobler joys, Her nobler sorrows.

Who had dared foretell That only man, by some sad mockery, Should learn to laugh who learns that he


I WOULD I had thy courage, dear, to

face This bankruptcy of love, and greet despair With smiling eyes and unconcerned em

brace, And these few words of banter at « dull

must die ?



A score of names well used, and dear,

The names my childhood knew ; The horn, with which I rouse their cheer,

Is the horn my father blew.

I like the hunting of the hare

Better than that of the fox; The new world still is all less fair

Than the old world it mocks.

GIBRALTAR SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days

of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more We ride into still water and the calm Of a sweet evening screened by either shore Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, Our exile is accomplished. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. Ay, this is the famed rock, which Hercules And Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At

this door England stands sentry. God! to hear the

shrill Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill.

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eyes be kist

too away:



TWO SONNET-SONGS LOVE-LORE 'Twas in mid autumn, and the woods

The Sirens sing. were still.

Hist, hist, ye winds, ye whispering waveA brooding mist from out the marshlands lets hist, lay

Their toil is done, their teen and trouble Like age's clammy band upon the day,

are o'er, Soddening it ;- and the night rose dank Wash them, ye waves, in silence to the shore, and chill.

Waft them, ye winds, with voices hushed I watched the sere leaves falling, falling,

and whist. till

Hist, waves and winds, here shall their Old thoughts, old hopes, seemed fluttering

By love, and sweet love-slumber, till the roar And then I sighed to think how life's of forepast storms, now stilled, for ever

more, And change, and time's mischances, Love Die on their dream-horizons like dim mist. might kill.

What of renown, ye winds, when storms Sudden a shadowy horseman, at full speed

are done? Spurring a pale horse, passed me swiftly A faded foam-flower on a wearying wave. by,

All toil is but the digging of a grave. And mocking shrieked, “ Thy love is dead Here let them rest awhile ere set the sun, indeed.

And sip the honey'd moments one by one — Haste to the burial !” — With a bitter cry So fleet, so sweet, so few to squander or I swooned, and wake to wonder at my

creed, Learning from Death that Love can never

II die.

Orpheus and the Mariners make answer. DEATH AS THE FOOL

FLEET, fleet and few, ay, fleet the moments

fly In the high turret chamber sat the sage, (Lash to light live foam, ye oars, the dreaming Striving to wring its secret from the scroll seas), Of time ; — and hard the task, for roll on And shall we lie in swine-sloth here at

roll Was blurred with blood and tears, or black (Dip, dip, ye oars, and dash the dark seas by),

În swine-sloth here while death is stealing So that at last a hunger seized him, a rage nigh Of richer lore than our poor life can dole, (Sweep, oars, sweep, here ripples and sparkles And loud he called on Death to dower his the breeze), soul

And work is ours to drain to the last lees ? With the great past's unrifled heritage. (Drive oars and winds, we will dare and do And lo, a creaking step upon the stair,

ere we die). A croak of song, a jingle, — and Death And if no sound of voice nor any call came in

Break the death-silence bidding us all hail, Mumming in motley with a merry din And, even among the living, Fame should And jangle of bells, and droning this re

fail frain,

To shrill our deeds, yet whatsoe'er befall, “God help the fools who count on death As men who fought for good not guerdon for gain.”

at all, So had the sage death-bell and passing- Peal the glad Pæan! (Steady oars and prayer.




with age.

George Cotterell

AN AUTUMN FLITTING My roof is hardly picturesque It lacks the pleasant reddish brown Of the tiled house-tops out of town, And cannot even hope to match The modest beauty of the thatch : Nor is it Gothic or grotesque No gable breaks, with quaint design, Its hard monotony of line, And not a gargoyle on the spout Brings any latent beauty out : Its only charm

I hold it highIs just its nearness to the sky.


For a quarrelsome amendment;
Bobbing heads and flapping wings,
Eloquent of many things,
Gathered into lively rows,
“ Pros” and “cons ” and “ayes” and

As the clatter reached my ears,
Now it sounded like “hear, hears”.
But again a note of faction,
With a clash of beaks in action,
Gave an aspect to the scene
Not exactly quite serene.
Fretful clusters flew away,
All too much incensed to stay ;
Wheeled about, then took a tack,
Halted and came darting back.
Others, eager to be heard,
Perched upon the chimney-top,
Chirped, as they would never stop,
Loud and fluent every bird.

But yet it looks o'er field and tree,
And in the air
One breathes up there
A faint, fresh whiff suggests the sea.
And that is why, this afternoon,
The topmost slates above the leads
Were thick with little bobbing heads,
And frisking tails, and wings that soon
Shall spread, ah me!
For lands where summer lingers fair,
Far otherwhere.
I heard a muttering,
Saw a fluttering,
Pointed wings went skimming past,
White breasts shimmered by as fast,
Wheel and bound and spurt and spring -
All the air seemed all on wing:
Then, like dropping clouds of leaves,
Down they settled on the eaves
All the swallows of the region,
In a number almost legion -
Frisked about, but did not stop
Till they reached the ridge atop.


But the turmoil passed away :
How it happened I can't say, -
All I know is, there was peace.
Whether some more thoughtful bird
Said the quarrelling was absurd,
And implored that it should cease;
Whether what appeared contention
Was a difference not worth mention,
Just some mere exchange of words
Not uncommon among birds,
I have only my own notion,
You may make a nearer guess ;
All at once the noise was over,
Not a bird was now a rover,
Some one seemed to put the motion,
And the little heads bobbed “ Yes."

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Oh, that sudden resolution,
So unanimously carried !
Would they'd longer talked and tarried,
With their fiery elocution !
What it bodes I cannot doubt ;
They were planning when to go,
And they have settled it, I know ;
Some chill morning, when the sun
Does not venture to shine out,
I shall miss them — overnight
They will all have taken flight,
And the summer will be gone.

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