II

I sometimes think that never lasts so long
The Style as when it starts a bit too strong;

That all the Pompadours the parterre boasts
Some Chorus-girl began, with Dance and Song.

And this Revival of the Chignon low
That fills the most of us with helpless Woe,
Ah, criticise it Softly! for who knows
What long-necked Peeress had to wear it so!

Ah, my beloved, try each Style you meet;
To-day brooks no loose ends, you must be neat.
Tomorrow! why tomorrow you may be
Wearing it down your back like Marguerite!

For some we once admired, the Very Best
That ever a French hand-boned Corset prest,

Wore what they used to call Prunella Boots,
And put on Nightcaps ere they went to rest.

And we that now make fun of Waterfalls
They wore, and whom their Crinoline appalls,

Ourselves shall from old dusty Fashion plates
Assist our Children in their Costume balls.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may wear,
Before we grow so old that we don't care!

Before we have our Hats made all alike,
Sans Plumes, sans Wings, sans Chiffon, and-sans Hair!

III

Alike to her who Dines both Loud and Long,

Or her who Banting shuns the Dinner-gong,

Some Doctor from his Office chair will shout, "It makes no Difference both of you are Wrong!"

Why, all the Health-Reformers who discussed
High Heels and Corsets learnedly are thrust

Square-toed and Waistless forth; their Duds are
scorned,

And Venus might as well have been a Bust.

Fragment in Imitation of Wordsworth 1923

Myself when slim did eagerly frequent
Delsarte and Ling, and heard great Argument

Of muscles trained to Hold me up, but still
Spent on my Modiste what I'd always spent!

With walking Clubs I did the best I could;
With my own Feet I tramped my Ten Miles, good;
And this was All that I got out of it-

I ate much more for Dinner than I should.

And fear not lest your Rheumatism seize
The Joy of Life from other people's Sprees;

The Art will not have Perished-au contraire,
Posterity will practise it with Ease!

When you and I have ceased Champagne to Sup,
Be sure there will be More to Keep it Up;

And while we pat Old Tabby by the fire,
Full many a Girl will lead her Brindled Pup.
Josephine Daskam Bacon [1876-

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN”

AFTER GOLDSMITH

WHEN lovely woman wants a favor,

And finds, too late, that man won't bend,
What earthly circumstance can save her
From disappointment in the end?

vig a fi okatil 2oodT

The only way to bring him over,

The last experiment to try,

Whether a husband or a lover,

If he have feeling is to cry.

Phoebe Cary [1824-1871]

FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH

THERE is a river clear and fair,

"Tis neither broad nor narrow;
It winds a little here and there-
It winds about like any hare;

1924

And then it holds as straight a course
As, on the turnpike road, a horse,
Or, through the air, an arrow.

The trees that grow upon the shore
Have grown a hundred years or more;
So long there is no knowing:

Old Daniel Dobson does not know
When first those trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they'd nothing else to do,
But ever must be growing.

The impulses of air and sky

Have reared their stately heads so high,
And clothed their boughs with green;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaff,—
And when the wind blows loud and keen,
I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,
And shake their sides with merry glee-
Wagging their heads in mockery.

Fixed are their feet in solid earth
Where winds can never blow;

But visitings of deeper birth
Have reached their roots below.

For they have gained the river's brink

And of the living waters drink.

There's little Will, a five years' child

He is my youngest boy;

To look on eyes so fair and wild,

It is a very joy.

He hath conversed with sun and shower,

And dwelt with every idle flower,

As fresh and gay as them.

He loiters with the briar-rose,-
The blue-bells are his playfellows,
That dance upon their slender stem.

And I have said, my little Will,
Why should he not continue still

Only Seven

A thing of Nature's rearing?

A thing beyond the world's control-
A living vegetable soul,--

No human sorrow fearing.

It were a blessèd sight to see
That child become a willow-tree,
His brother trees among.

He'd be four times as tall as me,
And live three times as long.

1925

Catherine M. Fanshawe [1765-1834]

ONLY SEVEN

AFTER WORDSWORTH

I MARVELLED why a simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as death.

Adopting a parental tone,

I asked her why she cried; The damsel answered with a groan, "I've got a pain inside!

"I thought it would have sent me mad Last night about eleven."

Said I, "What is it makes you bad?

How many apples have you had?”
She answered, "Only seven!"

"And are you sure you took no more, My little maid?" quoth I;

"Oh, please, sir, mother gave me four,
But they were in a pie!"

"If that's the case," I stammered out,
"Of course you've had eleven."
The maiden answered with a pout,
"I ain't had more nor seven!"

I wondered hugely what she meant,
And said, "I'm bad at riddles;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.

"Now, if you don't reform,” said I,
"You'll never go to heaven."
But all in vain; each time I try,
That little idiot makes reply,

"I ain't had more nor seven!"

POSTSCRIPT:

To borrow Wordsworth's name was wrong,

Or slightly misapplied;

And so I'd better call my song

"Lines after Ache-inside."

Henry Sambrooke Leigh (1837-1883]

LUCY LAKE

AFTER WORDSWORTH

POOR Lucy Lake was overgrown,
But somewhat underbrained.
She did not know enough, I own,
To go in when it rained.

Yet Lucy was constrained to go;
Green bedding,-you infer.
Few people knew she died, but oh,

The difference to her!

Newton Mackintosh (1858–

JANE SMITH

AFTER WORDSWORTH

I JOURNEYED, on a winter's day,
Across the lonely wold;

No bird did sing upon the spray,
And it was very cold.