University of Virginia Library

Katie is a pretty shrew;
Isabel a little blue;
Maud as proud as Lucifer;
Christobel a sonneteer;
Edith is reserv'd and fair;
Eleanor hath auburn hair;
Margaret is masculine;
I don't care for Adeline;
Beatrix is very sweet;
And hath many at her feet;
Nothing hath she ever harm'd,
But an iceberg's sooner warmed;
She's so dully temperate
That she cannot even hate;
All her useful life is spent
In the tedious content
That in story-books befalls
Angels and good animals.
Mary is a peacemaker,
All the people round love her,
And I love her passively,
But she is too good for me.
Daring Ethel is a queen,
Most majestic in her mien
And most royal in her ways;
All the men her beauty praise,
Not before her royal face
If they dread condign disgrace.
Admiration in your eyes
Is her look'd-for, lawful prize;
Admiration in your speech
Is a statutable breach
Of Her Grace's social code.
No one ever waltz'd or rode,
Shot an arrow or a glance,
With more finish'd elegance;
Neither is she over-bold,
Callous, feelingless, nor cold.
If she sees a rough young squire
Reeling backwards from the fire
Of a merciless coquette
For his uncouth etiquette,
She will cross a crowded room
To alleviate his doom,
Make him come and sit by her,
Be a smiling listener
To the ‘bag’ of yesterday,
Where the warmest corners lay
In the Earl of Foxshire's woods:
How his blood-mare swam the floods,
Of the row with Farmer Scroggs,
And the names of all the dogs.
And if talk-about is true
Ethel can be tender too.
Who remembers Dick Duval,
Once the favourite of all?
Honest, hearty, handsome Dick,
Brave, and generous, and quick,
But there was no runagate
Ever so unfortunate.
Dicky never could escape,
As a schoolboy, from a scrape;
Dick was never in a brawl
But he came off worst of all;
He, whose share was often least,
Bore the blame of all the rest.
Dick at last—it ne'er appear'd
Why or wherefore—was cashier'd,
Driven from his father's hall,
Scowl'd upon and shunn'd by all.
Dick to queenly Ethel came:
Ethel had no word of blame,
Did not turn away or frown,
Ask'd no explanation,
Wrung his slack hand heartily,
And, looking at him earnestly,
In a sweet firm whisper said:
“I can trust you, Dick; you did
Nothing base, or mean, or low;
What you did I do not know.
Do not tell me—only say
That you would not turn away
From a man who did the same
As from one whose touch was shame.”
While a tear splash'd in the dust,
“Bless you, Ethel, for your trust,”
Was the broken-voic'd reply;
“Never such a thing did I.
But I came to say good-bye:
I am going to the East,
Under Osman to enlist,
From my name to wipe the stain,
And retrieve fair fame again.”
“Dick, I will not bid you stay,
Go and wipe the stain away;
One thing promise me, that you
Nothing in despair will do;
Try to come safe home again,
You have one who will remain
E'er your firm and faithful friend;
Promise, Dick, and try to mend,
No more getting into scrapes,
No more hazardous escapes,
Saving when you face the foe,
But then do as brave men do;
Wait until the battle—then
Give your gallant heart the rein;
And, if you have time to write,
Send the story of a fight
Bravely fought and bravely won,
How you are, and what you've done;
Saying when, your penance o'er,
You are coming home once more,
And where letters will reach you.”
“Who will write them, if I do?”
“I myself, Dick.” “You will?” “Yes,
I do not desert distress.”
“And can you, who are so fair,
Coveted by all men, care—
Stoop to correspond with me?”
“Correspond? Yes, certainly.
Dick I place you far before
All the faultless fools who bore
One to death with etiquette;
Who have nothing to regret,
Not because no ill they've wrought,
But because they've not done aught
Saving sleep, and drink, and eat,
And I hold the manly heat
That lands you in scrape and stain
Far above the force of brain
That leads some men to apply
Lifetimes to philosophy,
In contempt of common things—
Births, and loves, and buryings.
You've been hearty to excess,
But I like you none the less.”
“Hear me, Ethel, I am mad,
But I am not wholly bad;
I am mad, but going away
For long months, perhaps for aye;
Hear me, Ethel, long have I
Loved you most devotedly,
In the days when I was heir
To the acres broad and fair
Which are mine no longer now,
In the bright days of my youth
And wild days of later growth.
But you ever seem'd too good,
Of too queenly womanhood,
And too wonderful to be
For a simple man like me.
Hear me, Ethel, ere I go,—
Hear me,—I would have you know
That I love you as none can
But a passion-ridden man.
Hear me; if I live to come,
With refurbish'd honour, home,
And you e'er should need my aid,
If in life-blood it were paid,
I would shed it every drop
To give you a minute's hope.
But if I should never come,
Try to clear my name at home.
I will write you all the tale
Of this last scrape while I sail.
Good-bye, Ethel: do you weep?
Tears for worthier sorrows keep;
I'm not worth a single tear
From your lashes. Ethel dear,
Darling Ethel, do not cry.”
“Wait, Dick, do not say good-bye,
I love you too: if you still
Wish to marry me, I will
Wish to marry you, love.” “No,
Not when I have sunk so low;
You who seemed too good for me
In my old prosperity.
Darling, you would stoop too far,
Fair and noble as you are.
I am, do I what I can,
A dishonourable man.”
“Not dishonourable, Dick:
Ills have fallen fast and thick
On your wild, unlucky head,
But I know you truly said
You've not done since you were born
What would make you shrink in scorn
From a man who'd done the same,
As from one whose touch was shame.
Dick, you shall not leave me thus.”
“You are over-generous.”
“If I may not be your wife
I'll be single all my life;
But I will not bid you stay
Till the stain is wip'd away
By good service bravely done
On the field of action;
But when you come home again
I'll be yours if you are fain.”