Puslapio vaizdai

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he


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

Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,— Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare !)

Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!

"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!



"Kill not-for Pity's sake-and lest ye slay
The meanest thing upon its upward way."


WATCH you through the garden walks,
I watch you float between
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
Not butterflies, but bees!

You pause, you poise, you circle up
Among my old Japan;

You find a comrade on a cup,

A friend upon a fan ;

Yet wind anon, a breathing-while,
Around AMANDA's brow ;-
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?

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,

What heed for yellow sun,

Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One.

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!


MONSIEUR the Cure down the street

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,"

And the tiny Hôtel-de-Ville" ;

He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile.


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.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »