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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
And give me all to keep;
Of all the world may be,
Is all the world to me !
That Age of Folly and of Cards,
No H-Lts, no K-G-N P-Ls were then
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
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE
TO... ESQ. OF ... WITH A LIFE OF THE
LATE INGENIOUS MR. WM. HOGARTH
DEAR Cosmopolitan, — I know
You love, my FRIEND, with me I think,
Take Him. His Merits most aver : His weak Point is — his Chronicler !
The secret of thy proud aërial way,
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!
TO THE SAME
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
ON HER LIGHTHEARTEDNESS
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.
eyes be kist
Frank T. Marzials DEATH AS THE TEACHER OF
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
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
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.
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;
But yet it looks o'er field and tree,
But the turmoil passed away :
Oh, that sudden resolution,