The Ballad of Beau Brocade and Other Poems of the 18th Century

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K. Paul, Trench, Trübner & Company, 1893 - 83 psl.
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57 psl. - THE ladies of St. James's Go swinging to the play; Their footmen run before them, With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon. The ladies of St. James's Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down. The ladies of St. James's! They are so fine and fair...
50 psl. - A place to love in, — live, — for aye, If we too, like Tithonus, Could find some God to stretch the gray, Scant life the Fates have thrown us ; " But now by steam we run our race, With buttoned heart and pocket ; Our Love 'sa gilded, surplus grace, — Just like an empty locket ! '"The time is out of joint. ' Who will, May strive to make it better ; For me, this warm old window-sill, And this old dusty letter.
24 psl. - Deep in a flapped canary vest, With buds brocaded. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons, — round his throat, A soft cravat ; — in all you note An elder fashion, — A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats, — whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, Inspires compassion. He lived so long ago, you see ! Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting ; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in "garden...
31 psl. - Bible." Not that he Had searched its page as deep as we ; No sophistries could make him see Its slender credit ; It may be that he could not count The sires and sons to Jesse's fount, — He liked the " Sermon on the Mount," — And more, he read it. Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked lass who long was dead ; His ways were far too slow, he said, To quite forget her; And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where...
60 psl. - 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!
26 psl. - And watch, about the fish tank's brim, The swallows darting. He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue,— He liked the thrush that stopped and sung, — He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches ; He liked to watch the sunlight fall Athwart his ivied orchard wall ; Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call Beyond the beeches. His were the times of Paint and Patch, And yet no Ranelagh could match The sober doves that round his thatch Spread tails and sidled ; He liked their ruffling, puffed...
15 psl. - twas a freak of MEG or BET ; — A freak of the " Rose " or the " Rummer " set. Out-spoke DOLLY the Chambermaid, (Tremulous now, and sore afraid,) " Stand and Deliver, O ' BEAU BROCADE ' ! " — Firing then, out of sheer alarm, Hit the BEAU in the bridle-arm. Button the first went none knows where, But it carried away his solitaire; Button the second a circuit made. Glanced in under the shoulder-blade; — Down from the saddle fell " BEAU BROCADE " ! Down from the saddle and never stirred ! — DOLLY...
53 psl. - Dresden world, — Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, — Bonzes with squat legs under-curled, And great jars filled with roses. Ah, heart that wrote ! Ah, lips that kissed ! You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message ! A reverent one. Though we to-day Distrust beliefs and powers, The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers, Starring some pure primeval spring, Ere Gold had grown despotic, — Ere life was yet a selfish thing,...
49 psl. - Grew in the same grim shapes; and still The lipless dolphin spurted; Still in his wonted state abode The broken-nosed Apollo; And still the cypress-arbour showed The same umbrageous hollow. Only, — as fresh young Beauty gleams From coffee-coloured laces, — So peeped from its old-fashioned dreams The fresher modern traces; For idle mallet, hoop, and ball Upon the lawn were lying; A magazine, a tumbled shawl, Round which the swifts were flying; And, tossed beside the Guelder rose, A heap of rainbow...
51 psl. - Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile — . We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile ; Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John...

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