Baked meats of the funeral a collection of essays, poems, speeches, histories, and banquets |
SUMMER NOTES FROM THE SEA-SIDE. |
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 | Baked meats of the funeral |  |
SUMMER NOTES FROM THE SEA-SIDE.
[In the August of 1863, Private Miles wanted a
fortnight's furlough to go sea-bathing at Newport,
and gave a glowing picture of the pleasures of
that occupation (in the right kind of society) to
Col. John C. Kelton of the Adjutant-General's
Department of the Old Army, who was the
officer with power to grant his wishes. Kelton
had never been at the sea-side, and consequently
knew nothing of the sport—his duties taking him
away to our far-western frontier immediately after
his graduation from the Military Academy. After
some trouble, therefore, as is usual in such cases,
the furlough was finally granted on condition that
the writer should report his sea-bathing sensations
at Newport to his superior officer—a condition
which was thus fulfilled.]
The pleasures of tripping through breakers and dipping,
Some stately brunette, or gay blonde—better yet—
In the surf and the surges from which she emerges
Her bright eyes half blinded,
Her cheeks salt and rosy,
Her hair—never mind it—
She's fresh as a Posie!
The waves have betrayed her—each delicate rounding,
She is just as God made her, with beauty abounding!
No lace, no illusion, but charms in profusion;
No hoops to enshroud her, no rouge or pearl powder;
All milliner traces
Of fashion have flown,
And in all its true graces
Her beauty is shown;
A new Aphrodité
She shines on the shore—
O sea nymph! Nereidé!
We bow and adore.
Supreme of all pleasures, best wealth of all wealth,
Unspeakable treasures of youth and of health!
The blue, brawny billows—calm steady old fellows—
The moment they find her awaiting their shock
In their strong arms to wind her so eagerly flock
That they break into clamors,
And rise silver crested,
And with all ocean's glamours
Of splendor invested—
They chase and pursue her, swirl round her and woo her,
Bright wreaths o'er her twining in hoarse tones they praise her,
And high in their shining white fore-arms upraise her.
They raise her, aspiring
To throne her on shore,
Then, slowly retiring,
Again with a roar,
To her feet they surge onward, their crests sparkling sunward,
Alas! woe is me that my heart is not colder!
That it is not so cold
As to calmly behold
These lords of the sea
With her charms making free—
Denied and for ever denied unto me!
That my hands may not fold her dear tresses of gold
To my heart, to my breast, there securely to rest,
Her tenderness shielded, her passion confessed!
'Tis worth all our long marches,
Hard fare and repining,
Our trenching and mining,
To see the bright arches
Of silver spray shining,
All round and above her,
As if the rude waves
Did humanly love her
And were but her slaves!
So get wounded, my boy, and a furlough obtain,
Such moments of joy are worth treble the pain:
Let a ball through you glance, keeping clear of the bones—
Just enough for romance (with occasional moans),
And you'll find it, I tell you,
Of all that befell you
The luckiest day you have met in your life,
If you are, as you say, “now in search of a wife.”
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