"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,-under the seat, Is a nest with four eggs,-'tis the favoured retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair! And yet-Can't you fancy a face in the frame Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair? Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague; Stout fellows!-but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair! It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade"; For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited and waited, that old Sedan chair! Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell "Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—" With Care,❞— To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan chair! 1 TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY I "Kill not-for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay -FIVE RULES OF BUDDHA WATCH you through the garden walks, The avenues of dahlia stalks, And flicker on the green; You hover round the garden seat, You mount, you waver. Why,— Why storm us in our still retreat, O saffron Butterfly! Across the room in loops of flight I watch you wayward go; Dance down a shaft of glancing light, Review my books a-row; Before the bust you flaunt and flit Of "blind Mæonides". Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit You pause, you poise, you circle up Among my old Japan; A friend upon a fan; You wind anon, a breathing-while, Away! Her thoughts are not as thine. A sterner purpose fills Her steadfast soul with deep design Of baby bows and frills; What care hath she for worlds without, Whose endless hopes revolve about Away! Tempt not the best of wives; Let not thy garish wing Come fluttering our Autumn lives With truant dreams of Spring! Away! Reseek thy "Flowery Land"; Be Buddha's law obeyed; Lest Betty's undiscerning hand Should slay . . . a future PRAED! THE CURE'S PROGRESS ONSIEUR the Curé down the street Μα Comes with his kind old face, With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place," He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose, He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse," As she knits in her dusky stall There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes In his tails for a pain d'épice. There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui !" |