 | Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . |  |
208
City Poems.
[Come out, love—the night is enchanting]
Argument.—The poet starts from the Bowling Green, to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.
Come out, love—the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting—
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that “coolness” entices,
And love is no better for chilling—
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting—
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that “coolness” entices,
And love is no better for chilling—
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us—
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)
Oh Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilachs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us—
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)
Oh Woman! thou secret past knowing!
209
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm—
When—pest!—that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm—
When—pest!—that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnbius by!
(Though sweet is I scream when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high)—
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!
While goes a swift omnbius by!
(Though sweet is I scream when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high)—
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!
210
THE WHITE CHIP HAT.
I pass'd her one day in a hurry,
When late for the Post with a letter—
I think near the corner of Murray—
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a dutchess's doing—
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandall'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing—
Lovely thing!
When late for the Post with a letter—
I think near the corner of Murray—
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a dutchess's doing—
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandall'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing—
Lovely thing!
Surprising!—one woman can dish us
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious—
Chip hat without flower or feather—
Wel-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,
Her waist like the cup of a lily—
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the saucy and silly—
Quite the thing!
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious—
Chip hat without flower or feather—
Wel-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,
Her waist like the cup of a lily—
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the saucy and silly—
Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
There's reason in straining one's tether—
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as you know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney—
But I said a bad word—for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney—
Horrid thing!
There's reason in straining one's tether—
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
211
I met her again, and as you know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney—
But I said a bad word—for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney—
Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd—
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses—
And the star that “swaps” light with a candle
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes!—
Not the thing!
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses—
And the star that “swaps” light with a candle
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes!—
Not the thing!
212
LADY IN THE WHITE DRESS, I HELPED INTO THE OMNIBUS.
I know her not! Her hand has been in mine,
And the warm pressure of her taper arm
Has thrill'd upon my fingers, and the hem
Of her white dress has lain upon my feet,
Till my hush'd pulse, by the caressing folds,
Was kindled to a fever! I, to her,
Am but the undistinguishable leaf
Blown by upon the breeze—yet I have sat,
And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes,
(Close as a lover in his hour of bliss,
And steadfastly as look the twin stars down
Into unfathomable wells,) have gazed!
And I have felt from out its gate of pearl
Her warm breath on my cheek, and while she sat
Dreaming away the moments, I have tried
To count the long dark lashes in the fringe
Of her bewildering eyes! The kerchief sweet
That enviably visits her red lip
Has slumbered, while she held it, on my knee,—
And her small foot has crept between mine own—
And yet, she knows me not!
And the warm pressure of her taper arm
Has thrill'd upon my fingers, and the hem
Of her white dress has lain upon my feet,
Till my hush'd pulse, by the caressing folds,
Was kindled to a fever! I, to her,
Am but the undistinguishable leaf
Blown by upon the breeze—yet I have sat,
And in the blue depths of her stainless eyes,
(Close as a lover in his hour of bliss,
And steadfastly as look the twin stars down
Into unfathomable wells,) have gazed!
And I have felt from out its gate of pearl
Her warm breath on my cheek, and while she sat
Dreaming away the moments, I have tried
To count the long dark lashes in the fringe
Of her bewildering eyes! The kerchief sweet
That enviably visits her red lip
Has slumbered, while she held it, on my knee,—
And her small foot has crept between mine own—
And yet, she knows me not!
Now, thanks to heaven
For blessings chainless in the rich man's keeping—
Wealth that the miser cannot hide away!
Buy, if they will, the invaluable flower—
They cannot store its fragrance from the breeze!
Wear, if they will, the costliest gem of Ind—
It pours its light on every passing eye!
And he who on this beauty sets his name—
Who dreams, perhaps, that for his use alone
Such loveliness was first of angels born—
Tell him, oh whisperer at his dreaming ear,
That I too, in her beauty, sun my eye,
And, unrebuked, may worship her in song—
Tell him that heaven, along our darkling way,
Hath set bright lamps with lovliness alight—
And all may in their guiding beams rejoice;
But he—as 'twere a watcher by a lamp—
Guards but this bright one's shining.
For blessings chainless in the rich man's keeping—
213
Buy, if they will, the invaluable flower—
They cannot store its fragrance from the breeze!
Wear, if they will, the costliest gem of Ind—
It pours its light on every passing eye!
And he who on this beauty sets his name—
Who dreams, perhaps, that for his use alone
Such loveliness was first of angels born—
Tell him, oh whisperer at his dreaming ear,
That I too, in her beauty, sun my eye,
And, unrebuked, may worship her in song—
Tell him that heaven, along our darkling way,
Hath set bright lamps with lovliness alight—
And all may in their guiding beams rejoice;
But he—as 'twere a watcher by a lamp—
Guards but this bright one's shining.
214
TO THE LADY IN THE CHEMISETTE WITH BLACK BUTTONS.
I know not who thou art, oh lovely one!
Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful,
Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me
While handling up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus! Ah me!
The world is full of meetings such as this—
A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply—
And sudden partings after! We may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now—
Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I,
Lone, in the Waverley! Oh, life of pain!
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell—
Nay—see thee in the basement taking tea—
So cold is this inexorable world,
I must glide on! I dare not feast mine eye!
I dare not make articulate my love,
Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in
Venture to fling to thee my innocent card—
Not knowing thy papa!
Thine eyes were droop'd, thy lips half sorrowful,
Yet thou didst eloquently smile on me
While handling up thy sixpence through the hole
Of that o'er-freighted omnibus! Ah me!
The world is full of meetings such as this—
A thrill, a voiceless challenge and reply—
And sudden partings after! We may pass,
And know not of each other's nearness now—
Thou in the Knickerbocker Line, and I,
Lone, in the Waverley! Oh, life of pain!
And even should I pass where thou dost dwell—
Nay—see thee in the basement taking tea—
So cold is this inexorable world,
I must glide on! I dare not feast mine eye!
I dare not make articulate my love,
Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in
Venture to fling to thee my innocent card—
Not knowing thy papa!
Hast thou papa?
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth—
Nay—may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount—yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending—
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown,—
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, “She's not genteel!”
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of “good society” the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
215
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou mayst be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth—
Nay—may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount—yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending—
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown,—
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, “She's not genteel!”
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of “good society” the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!
But farewell,
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel—
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain—
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel—
216
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain—
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!
217
YOU KNOW IF IT WAS YOU.
As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair—
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair—
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less—
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars—
So I—a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love—
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair—
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair—
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less—
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars—
So I—a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love—
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That veil of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window—lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringéd veil,
Like an adventurous bird that would escape
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringéd window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That veil of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window—lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringéd veil,
218
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringéd window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!
219
LOVE IN A COTTAGE.
They may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine—
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
And bowers of trellised vine—
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier—
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
By the light of a chandelier—
With music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near;
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine,
And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies—
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
Your vine is a nest for flies—
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
220
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease—
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
And shot from a silver string.
And mightily likes his ease—
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
And shot from a silver string.
221
THE DECLARATION.
'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden—and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
Earnestly on me—She had been asleep!
| Poems of Nathaniel Parker Willis . | |