« PreviousContinue »
And laughed, and prattled in her pride of bliss !
But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye, On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry,
“Oh yes ! I see it, -Letty's home is there ! ” And while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.
Rev. Charles Tennyson-Turner.
YOUTH AND ART.
It once might have been, once only :
We lodged in a street together,
I, a lone she-bird of his feather.
Your trade was with sticks and clay,
You thumbed, thrust, patted and polished,
“Smith made, and Gibson demolished.”
I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twittered,
“ And Grisi's existence embittered!"
I earned no more by a warble
Than you by a sketch in plaster ;
I needed a music-master.
We studied hard in our styles,
Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,
For fun, watched each other's windows.
You lounged, like a boy of the South,
Cap and blouse—nay, a bit of beard too ; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth
With fingers the clay adhered to.
And I-soon managed to find
Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind,
And be safe in my corset lacing.
No harm! It was not my fault
If you never turned your eye's tail up, As I shook upon E in alt,
Or ran the chromatic scale up :
For spring bade the sparrows pair,
And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare
With bulrush and water-cresses.
Why did not you pinch a flower
In a pellet of clay and fling it ? Why did not I put a power.
Of thanks in a look, or sing it?
I did look, sharp as a lynx
(And yet the memory rankles), When models arrived, some minx
Tripped up-stairs, she and her ankles.
But I think I gave you as good !
"That foreign fellow,-- who can know “ How she pays, in a playful mood,
“ For his tuning her that piano ?”
Could you say so, and never say,
Suppose we join hands and fortunes, “ And I fetch her from over the way,
"Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes ? ”
No, no: you would not be rash,
Nor I rasher and something over : You've to settle yet Gibson's hash,
And Grisi yet lives in clover.
But you meet the Prince at the Board,
I'm queen myself at bals-paré, I've married a rich old lord,
And you're dubbed knight and an R.A.
Each lise unfulfilled, you see ;
It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:
And nobody calls you a dunce,
And people suppose me clever: This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it for ever.
The Flower's Name.
Here's the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since : Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,
As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spuned,
To feed and forget it the leaves among.
Down this side of the gravel-walk
She went while her robe's edge brushed the box : And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses ranged in a valiant row,
I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you, noble roses, I know ;
But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie !
This flower she stooped at, finger on lip,
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name : What a name! Was it love or praise ?
Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring lier, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ; But do not detain me now ; for she lingers
There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.
Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved for ever! Bud, if I kiss you, 'tis that you blow not :
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle
Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle
Is not the dear mark still to be seen ?
Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee ;
June's twice June since she breathed it with me?
Treasure my lady's lightest footfall !
'Tis bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid “Good-night,”
Francis, Earl of Rosslyn.