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Thro' the rare red heather we danced together
(O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers : I must mention again it was gorgeous weather,
Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:
By rises that flush'd with their purple flavors,
Thro' becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, We walked and waded, we two young shavers,
Thanking our stars we were both so green.
We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie,
In fortunate parallels! Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly
Or marjoram, kept making peacock eyes:
Songbirds darted about, some inky
As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky –
They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds !
But they skim over bents which the millstream washes,
Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem; They need no parasols, no goloshes;
And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them.
Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather)
That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt — (it was perfectly charming weather) –
Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms:
And Willie 'gan sing (0, his notes were Auty;
Wafts fluttered them out to the white-wing'd sea) Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty,
Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry: "
Bowers of flowers encounter'd showers
In William's carol — (O love my Willie!)
I quite forget what say a daffodilly:
A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,"
I think occurred next in his nimble strain;
A rhyme most novel, I do maintain:
Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories,
And all least furlable things got “furled; Not with any design to conceal their “glories,”
But simply and solely to rhyme with “world."
O if billows and pillows and hours and flowers,
And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together, this genial weather, And carted, or carried on
“ wafts” away, Nor ever again trotted out - ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be!
Charles Stuart Calverley
THE IDEAL HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE
We've lived for forty years, dear wife,
And walked together side by side,
As when you were my bride.
One long, sweet honeymoon of joy,
Without the least alloy.
That we in peace might toil along,
That I was right and you were wrong.
No mad diversity of creed
Has ever sundered me from thee;
To borrow your ideas of me.
Our love forevermore endures;
My views and creeds, and make them yours.
And thus in peace we toil along,
That I am right and you are wrong.
And when our matrimonial skiff
Strikes snags in love's meandering stream, I lift our shallop from the rocks,
And float as in a placid dream. And well I know our marriage bliss
While life shall last will never cease; For I shall always let thee do,
In generous love, just what I please.
Love's bright day follows hatred's night;
Sam Walter Foss
THE HUNTING SEASON
BY A MATCH - SCHEMING MAMMA
Don't talk of September!
a lady Must think it of all months the worst; The men are preparing already
To take themselves off on the First. I try to arrange a small party,
The girls dance together; how tame! I'd get up a game of écarté,
But they go to bring down their game!
Last month, their attention to quicken,
A supper I knew was the thing; But now from my turkey and chicken
They're tempted by birds on the wing! They shoulder their terrible rifles,
(It's really too much for my nerves !) And slighting my sweets and my trifles,
Prefer my Lord Harry's preserves !
Miss Lovemore, with great consternation,
Now hears of the terrible plan,
Was only a flash in the pan!
And men are all sparing of words;
And now, 'stead of popping the question,
They set off to pop at the birds.
Go, false ones, your aim is so horrid,
That love at the sight of you gies; You care not for locks on the forehead,
The locks made by Manton you prize.
Like flints I behold you depart;
The load you have left on my heart !
They talk about patent percussions,
And all preparations for sport; And those double-barrel discussions
Exhaust double bottles of port!
As off on his pony he jogs;
Thomas Haynes Bayly
There's somewhat on my breast, father,
There's somewhat on my breast! The livelong day I sigh, father,
And at night I cannot rest.
Though I would fain do so;
This weary weight of woe!
'Tis not the lack of gold, father,
Nor want of worldly gear;
My friends are kind and dear.
They mourn to see my grief; But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand
Can give my heart relief!
'Tis not that Janet's false, father,
'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around,
I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my laboring breast;
Richard Harris Barham
THE EDITOR'S WOOING
We love thee, Ann Maria Smith,
And in thy condescension We see a future full of joys
Too numerous to mention.
There's Cupid's arrow in thy glance,
That by thy love's coercion
And asked for one insertion.
With joy we feel the blissful smart;
And ere our passion ranges, We freely place thy love upon
The list of our exchanges.
There's music in thy lowest tone,
And silver in thy laughter :
Oh, we could tell thee of our plans
All obstacles to scatter;
A press of other matter.
Then let us marry, Queen of Smiths,
Without more hesitation:
Robert H. Newell