Puslapio vaizdai
PDF
„ePub“

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL | You hand us a nosegay of milliner's

[blocks in formation]

It can't have fatigued him, — no, not in the least,

A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon,

And there stands the wrinkledskinned, baggy-limbed beast.

Just so with your verse, - 'tis as easy as sketching,

You can reel off a song without knitting your brow,

With musical murmurs and rhythmi- As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing

cal closes

You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell;

[blocks in formation]

Well; imagine you've printed your No will of your own with its puny

volume of verses;

Your forehead is wreathed with

the garland of fame,

Your poem the eloquent school-boy rehearses.

Her album the school-girl presents

for your name;

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying; The storm came roaring through the lines,

And set them all a flying;

I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches:

I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,

I lost my Sunday breeches!

That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them!

The dews had steeped their faded threads,

The winds had whistled through them!

I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them;

A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,

I saw them straddling through the air, But those young pantaloons have

Alas! too late to win them;

I saw them chase the clouds, as if The devil had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride, My boyhood's only riches, "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried: "My breeches! O my breeches!"

[blocks in formation]

THOMAS HOOD.

TO MY INFANT SON.

THOU happy, happy elf!

In love's dear chain so bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents;-(Drat the boy!

(But stop; first let me kiss away that There goes my ink.)

tear,)

Thou tiny image of myself!

Thou cherub, but of earth;

(My love, he's poking peas into his Fit playfellow for fairies, by moon

ear,)

Thou merry, laughing sprite,

With spirits, feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin.

(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

light pale,

In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey

From every blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in youth's Elysium ever

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]
[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

But still he stoutly urged his suit,
With vows, and sighs, and tears,
It could not pierce her heart, al-
though

He drove the "Dart" for years.

In vain he wooed, in vain he sued;
And sent him off to Coventry,
The maid was cold and proud,

While on his way to Stroud.

He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town;
The course of love was never smooth,
So his went up and down.

At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin,
But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
"O Mary! view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf;
Though I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half."

Alas! in vain he still assailed,

Her heart withstood the dint; Though he had carried sixteen stone, He could not move a flint.

Worn out, at last he made a vow
To break his being's link;
For he was so reduced in size
At nothing he could shrink.

Now some will talk in water's praise, And waste a deal of breath,

But John, though he drank nothing else,

He drank himself to death.

The cruel maid that caused his love,
Found out the fatal close,
For looking in the butt, she saw
The butt-end of his woes.

There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he's intent on pelf;
And though he's pious, will not love
His neighbor as himself.

At Number Seven there was a sale-
The goods had quite a run!
And here I've got my single lot
On hand at Number One!

My mother often sits at work, And talks of props and stays,

Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, And what a comfort I shall be

But that is only talk

For after riding all his life, His ghost objects to walk.

NUMBER ONE.

It's very hard! - and so it is,
To live in such a row, -
And witness this, that every Miss
But me has got a beau.

For Love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun;

I am sure he has been asked enough To call at Number One!

I'm sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four!
At Number Three I often see
A lover at the door;

And one in blue, at Number Two,
Calls daily, like a dun,-

It's very hard they come so near, And not to Number One!

Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear Exactly to her mind.—

By sitting at the window-pane Without a bit of blind;

But I go in the balcony,

Which she has never done;

In her declining days:

The very maids about the house
Have set me down a nun,

The sweethearts all belong to them
That call at Number One!

| Once only, when the flue took fire, One Friday afternoon,

Young Mr. Long came kindly in
And told me not to swoon:
Why can't he come again, without
The Phoenix and the Sun ?
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One!

I am not old; I am not plain;
Nor awkward in my gait -

I am not crooked like the bride
That went from Number Eight:
I'm sure white satin made her look
As brown as any bun -

But even beauty has no chance,
I think, at Number One!

At Number Six they say Miss Rose
Has slain a score of hearts,

And Cupid, for her sake, has been
Quite prodigal of darts.

The Imp they show with bended

bow,

Yet arts that thrive at Number Five I wish he had a gun!
Don't take at Number One.

'Tis hard, with plenty in the street, And plenty passing by,

There's nice young men at Number Ten,

But only rather shy;

And Mrs. Smith across the way
Has got a grown-up son,

But, la! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One!

But if he had he'd never deign To shoot with Number One!

It's very hard, and so it is,
To live in such a row!
And here's a baliad-singer come
To aggravate my woe:

Oh, take away your foolish song,
And tones enough to stun —
There is "Nae luck about the house,"
I know, at Number One!

« AnkstesnisTęsti »