 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
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HUMOROUS POEMS.
VALERIE'S CONFESSION.
TO A FRIEND.
They declare that I'm gracefully pretty,
The very best waltzer that whirls;
They say I am sparkling and witty,
The pearl, the queen rose-bud of girls.
But, alas for the popular blindness!
Its judgment, though folly, can hurt:
Since my heart, that runs over with kindness,
It vows is the heart of a flirt!
The very best waltzer that whirls;
They say I am sparkling and witty,
The pearl, the queen rose-bud of girls.
But, alas for the popular blindness!
Its judgment, though folly, can hurt:
Since my heart, that runs over with kindness,
It vows is the heart of a flirt!
How, how, can I help it, if Nature,
Whose mysteries baffle our ken,
Hath made me the tenderest creature
That ever had pity on men?
When the shafts of my luminous glances
Have tortured some sensitive breast,
Why, I soften their light till it trances
The poor wounded bosom to rest!
Whose mysteries baffle our ken,
Hath made me the tenderest creature
That ever had pity on men?
When the shafts of my luminous glances
Have tortured some sensitive breast,
Why, I soften their light till it trances
The poor wounded bosom to rest!
Can I help it if, brought from all regions,
As diverse in features as gait,
Rash lovers besiege me in legions,
Each lover demanding his fate?
To be cold to such fervors of feeling
Would pronounce me a dullard or dunce;
And so, the bare thought sets me reeling,
I'm engaged to six suitors at once!
As diverse in features as gait,
Rash lovers besiege me in legions,
Each lover demanding his fate?
To be cold to such fervors of feeling
Would pronounce me a dullard or dunce;
And so, the bare thought sets me reeling,
I'm engaged to six suitors at once!
The first,—we shall call him “sweet William,”
He's a lad scarcely witty or wise—
The gloom of the sorrows of “Ilium”
Would seem to outbreathe on his sighs.
When I strove, half in earnest, to flout him,
Pale, pale at my footstool he sunk;
But mamma, quite too ready to scout him,
Would hint that “sweet Willie” was drunk!
He's a lad scarcely witty or wise—
The gloom of the sorrows of “Ilium”
Would seem to outbreathe on his sighs.
When I strove, half in earnest, to flout him,
Pale, pale at my footstool he sunk;
But mamma, quite too ready to scout him,
Would hint that “sweet Willie” was drunk!
My second, a florid Adonis
Of forty-and-five, to a day,
Drives me out in his phaeton yith ponies,
Making love every yard of the way,
Who so pleasantly placed could resist him?
Had he popped 'neath the moonlight and dew
That eve, I could almost have kissed him
(A confession alone, dear, for you).
Of forty-and-five, to a day,
Drives me out in his phaeton yith ponies,
Making love every yard of the way,
Who so pleasantly placed could resist him?
Had he popped 'neath the moonlight and dew
That eve, I could almost have kissed him
(A confession alone, dear, for you).
Next, a widower, polished and youthful,
Far famed for his learning and pelf:
Can I doubt that his passion is truthful,
That he seeks me alone for myself?
Yet I know that some slanderers mutter
His fortune is just taking wings;
But I scorn the backbiters who utter
Such basely censorious things!
Far famed for his learning and pelf:
Can I doubt that his passion is truthful,
That he seeks me alone for myself?
Yet I know that some slanderers mutter
His fortune is just taking wings;
But I scorn the backbiters who utter
Such basely censorious things!
Could they hearken his love-whisper, dulcet
As April's soft tide on the strand,
Whose white curves are loath to repulse it,
So sweet is its homage and bland;
Could they hear how his dead wife's devotion
He praises, while yearning for mine—
They would own that his ardent emotion
Is something—yes—almost divine!
As April's soft tide on the strand,
Whose white curves are loath to repulse it,
So sweet is its homage and bland;
Could they hear how his dead wife's devotion
He praises, while yearning for mine—
They would own that his ardent emotion
Is something—yes—almost divine!
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My fourth—would to heaven I could paint him
As next the high altar he stands—
A Saint John, all the people besaint him?
Pale brow and immaculate hands,
Ah! his tones in their wooing seem holy,
Nor dare I believe it misplaced,
When an arm of the church, stealing slowly.
Is folded, at length, round my waist;
As next the high altar he stands—
A Saint John, all the people besaint him?
Pale brow and immaculate hands,
Ah! his tones in their wooing seem holy,
Nor dare I believe it misplaced,
When an arm of the church, stealing slowly.
Is folded, at length, round my waist;
Behold this long list of my lovers
With a soldier and sailor complete:
Both swear that their hearts were but rovers
Till fettered and bound at my feet.
Oh dear! but these worshippers daunt me:
Their claims, their vain wishes, appall;
'Tis sad how they harass and haunt me,—
What, WHAT, shall I do with them all?
With a soldier and sailor complete:
Both swear that their hearts were but rovers
Till fettered and bound at my feet.
Oh dear! but these worshippers daunt me:
Their claims, their vain wishes, appall;
'Tis sad how they harass and haunt me,—
What, WHAT, shall I do with them all?
LATER.
As the foam-flakes, when steadfastly blowing,
The west wind sweeps reckless and free,
Are borne where the deep billows, flowing,
Pass out to a limitless sea,
So the gay spume of girlish romances,
Upcaught by true Love on his breath,
With the fretwork and foam of young fancies,
Was borne through vague distance to death.
The west wind sweeps reckless and free,
Are borne where the deep billows, flowing,
Pass out to a limitless sea,
So the gay spume of girlish romances,
Upcaught by true Love on his breath,
With the fretwork and foam of young fancies,
Was borne through vague distance to death.
For he came—the true hero—one morning,
And my soul with quick thrills of delight
Leaped upward, renewed, and reborn in
A world of strange beauty and might:
I seemed fenced from all earthly disaster;
My pulses beat tuneful and fast;
So I welcomed my monarch, my master
The first real love, and the last.
And my soul with quick thrills of delight
Leaped upward, renewed, and reborn in
A world of strange beauty and might:
I seemed fenced from all earthly disaster;
My pulses beat tuneful and fast;
So I welcomed my monarch, my master
The first real love, and the last.
A MEETING OF THE BIRDS.
Of a thousand queer meetings, both great, sir, and small
The bird-party I sing of seemed oddest of all!
The bird-party I sing of seemed oddest of all!
How they come to assemble—a multi-form show—
From all parts of the earth, is—well—more than I know.
From all parts of the earth, is—well—more than I know.
I only can vow that, one fine night of June,
In a vast, varied garden, made bright by the moon,
In a vast, varied garden, made bright by the moon,
Such bird-throngs I saw, with plumes brilliant or dark,
As had ne'er met, I deem, since the age of the ark:
As had ne'er met, I deem, since the age of the ark:
There the phœnix, upborne on a tall jasper spar,
His fair mate by his side, shone serene as a star;
His fair mate by his side, shone serene as a star;
With a calm sort of pride glancing down on all others,
As scorning to claim such canaille for his brothers!
As scorning to claim such canaille for his brothers!
He alone of earth's creatures (more wise far than Adam),
When Eve tempted him, said “Excuse me, good madam!
When Eve tempted him, said “Excuse me, good madam!
“No juice from that fruit shall e'er moisten my thrapple!
Delicious! perhaps .. but who gave you the apple?”
Delicious! perhaps .. but who gave you the apple?”
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Then—his tiny red optics upturned to this king
Of all species that court the light air with a wing—
Of all species that court the light air with a wing—
Lo, the rooster! his top-knot bright crimson and blue,
With his impudent strut and his cock-doodle-doo,
With his impudent strut and his cock-doodle-doo,
Is resolved, one can see, the king's hauteur yo balk!
What's a phœnix, forsooth, to such cocks of the walk!
What's a phœnix, forsooth, to such cocks of the walk!
Oh! he bustles along, and he bullies his wife,
Till the poor humbled partlet is weary of life—
Till the poor humbled partlet is weary of life—
When, phew! like a bolt of blue lightning or brown,
Outflashed from the trees, a swift beebird whirls down
Outflashed from the trees, a swift beebird whirls down
Upon cocky's great top-knot upreared like a dome,
To cut, just for once, his big highness's comb!
To cut, just for once, his big highness's comb!
From the rooster's discomfiture, laughing, I turn
To where, 'mid the garden's cool avenues, burn
To where, 'mid the garden's cool avenues, burn
The fair cinnamon tufts of those hipooes that sold
To King Solomon, once, their true crownlets of gold;
To King Solomon, once, their true crownlets of gold;
And beyond where the shadow waves dim by the sheen,
The gay humming-bird darts—a live rainbow—between:
The gay humming-bird darts—a live rainbow—between:
While the parrakeets glitter, the orioles float
Through the moonlighted mist and fine vapors remote;
Through the moonlighted mist and fine vapors remote;
And by sides of small streams and clear lakelets outspread
Stalks the long-legged flamingo, all scarlet and red:
Stalks the long-legged flamingo, all scarlet and red:
In sooth, birds of all climes, whether wild birds or tame,
Whether dove-hued and sad, or high-colored like flame,
Whether dove-hued and sad, or high-colored like flame,
Walked, wobbled and sauntered, paused, fluttered and flew,
With vast blending of plumes, and, ah! endless ado.
With vast blending of plumes, and, ah! endless ado.
The eagle's loud anger, set deaf'ningly loose,
Shrilled fierce o'er the arrogant hiss of the goose,
Shrilled fierce o'er the arrogant hiss of the goose,
And a peacock, who screeched till his gills were half black,
Could not drown, after all, a professional “quack;”
Could not drown, after all, a professional “quack;”
The nightingale pitted his voice and his lore
'Gainst the skylark, that never had trilled thus before;
'Gainst the skylark, that never had trilled thus before;
And the cock now recovered, and fresh, sir, as dew,
Strove to bear them both down with his cock-doodle-doo:
Strove to bear them both down with his cock-doodle-doo:
Till—one volume of strange, contradictory sound,
The air, like a millwheel, whizzed round us and round.
The air, like a millwheel, whizzed round us and round.
And while still the white moonshine, on vapors of fleece,
Rained down its ineffable splendors in peace,
Rained down its ineffable splendors in peace,
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That bird congregation broke up in a row,
Whose noises, half dreaming, I catch even now.
Whose noises, half dreaming, I catch even now.
But the last glimpse of all that flashed quick on my eyes,
Ere the whole meeting faded 'twixt garden and skies,
Ere the whole meeting faded 'twixt garden and skies,
Was the cuckoo's unwearied, nefarious leg
Scratching fast to discover a phœnix's egg,
Scratching fast to discover a phœnix's egg,
Which, if yound, I've no doubt, was close-hidden and pressed
By the vile little wretch, with quite mother-like breast.
By the vile little wretch, with quite mother-like breast.
Yet I've seen other creatures than creatures with wings
Who dared to make free with thrice sanctified things.
Who dared to make free with thrice sanctified things.
From whose false incubation what creeds came in vogue!
Even truth's egg is marred if hatched out by a rogue!
Even truth's egg is marred if hatched out by a rogue!
Tradition says that when Adam ate of the forbidden fruit, at Eve's instigation, the phœnix, alone, of all creatures, equally tempted, did not fall.
The Hipooes originally had real crowns of gold on their heads; but so persecuted were they because of this possession that they appealed to Solomon, who (the legend says) exchanged their gold crowns for crowns of feathers, retaining the former as a trifling “compliment” for his magic skill and kindness!
A BACHELOR-BOOKWORM'S COMPLAINT OF THE LATE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTIONS.
[Written during the Hayes and Tilden Controversy].
A man of peace, I never dared to marry,
Lover of tranquil hours, I dwelt apart;
Outside the realm where noisy schemes miscarry;
My only handmaids, Science, Learning, Art;
Oh! home of pleasant thought, of calm affection,
All blasted now by this last vile election!
Lover of tranquil hours, I dwelt apart;
Outside the realm where noisy schemes miscarry;
My only handmaids, Science, Learning, Art;
Oh! home of pleasant thought, of calm affection,
All blasted now by this last vile election!
One morn, absorbed in studious contemplation
Of what or whom, I cannot now recall,
A strident voice, “Rise! help to save the nation!”
Roared in mine ear, half bellow and half squall;
“Throw by your books, why, man, there's treason brewing;
Come, come with me, we'll block the march of ruin!”
Of what or whom, I cannot now recall,
A strident voice, “Rise! help to save the nation!”
Roared in mine ear, half bellow and half squall;
“Throw by your books, why, man, there's treason brewing;
Come, come with me, we'll block the march of ruin!”
My neighbor, Dobson—all the gods confound him!
Seized, shook and hauled me from my cushioned seat;
(Just then I could have drugged the wretch, or drowned him;)
But the next moment on bewildered feet,
I trudged with him through dirty streets and weather,
That we might vote at the next poll together.
Seized, shook and hauled me from my cushioned seat;
(Just then I could have drugged the wretch, or drowned him;)
But the next moment on bewildered feet,
I trudged with him through dirty streets and weather,
That we might vote at the next poll together.
Vote! vote for whom? I'd not the faintest notion;
Little I recked of modern joys or woes;
Wrapped in Greek wars and ancient Rome's commotion,
What passed beneath my philosophic nose,
Seemed dim as glimmerings of a midnight taper
Marked from afar through autumn clouds and vapor!
Little I recked of modern joys or woes;
Wrapped in Greek wars and ancient Rome's commotion,
What passed beneath my philosophic nose,
Seemed dim as glimmerings of a midnight taper
Marked from afar through autumn clouds and vapor!
At length we paused before a wood-work wicket,
Shrining the grimy guardian of the poll;
Into my hands they thrust a printed ticket,
An ink-besmeared, suspicious-looking scroll,
Which, ne'ertheless, held names of men whose action
Would cow—they swore—the brazen front of faction!
Shrining the grimy guardian of the poll;
Into my hands they thrust a printed ticket,
An ink-besmeared, suspicious-looking scroll,
Which, ne'ertheless, held names of men whose action
Would cow—they swore—the brazen front of faction!
With scarce a glance, in vacant mood, I cast it;
That ticket soiled into as soiled a box;
A box, I thought, half vaguely as I passed it;
Whose guardian “Rough” looked wily as a fox,
Willing, no doubt, for any public hero,
To cheat ad lib.—a Brutus, or a Nero!
That ticket soiled into as soiled a box;
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Whose guardian “Rough” looked wily as a fox,
Willing, no doubt, for any public hero,
To cheat ad lib.—a Brutus, or a Nero!
Well! from that day, my peace of life was shattered;
Dobson would come, all lowering or ablaze
With joy, to shout—(as if the issue mattered’)
Now “Tilden's won!” now “glorious Ruthy Hayes!”
Vainly I argued, vainly vowed that d—n me,
I didn't care three straws for Ruth or—Sammy!
Dobson would come, all lowering or ablaze
With joy, to shout—(as if the issue mattered’)
Now “Tilden's won!” now “glorious Ruthy Hayes!”
Vainly I argued, vainly vowed that d—n me,
I didn't care three straws for Ruth or—Sammy!
“Have I not Scipio and majestic Cato,
With their grand deeds to ponder yet?” I cried;
“Why, dunder-headed Dobson, will you prate so,
Of modern dwarfs of time and fate untried;”
“Untried!” quoth he, aghast at my iniquity;
“I'll back them both, by Jove! 'gainst all antiquity!”
With their grand deeds to ponder yet?” I cried;
“Why, dunder-headed Dobson, will you prate so,
Of modern dwarfs of time and fate untried;”
“Untried!” quoth he, aghast at my iniquity;
“I'll back them both, by Jove! 'gainst all antiquity!”
And still he came, morning, and noon, and twilight,
Bringing, at last, his party henchmen yoo;
O! how I yearned to blow them through the skylight,
Or, at the gentlest, beat them black and blue;
Each cursed and threatened like some desperate Lara;
Meanwhile they quaffed and quaffed my best Madeira!
Bringing, at last, his party henchmen yoo;
O! how I yearned to blow them through the skylight,
Or, at the gentlest, beat them black and blue;
Each cursed and threatened like some desperate Lara;
Meanwhile they quaffed and quaffed my best Madeira!
A point there is beyond the soul's defiance,
Which gained, a mortal man must fight, or fly;
Fight, if he knows the wily tricks of “science,”
Fly, if he knows not when to smite, and why;
Needless to say, in this disastrous matter,
Of the two ways, I wisely chose—the latter!
Which gained, a mortal man must fight, or fly;
Fight, if he knows the wily tricks of “science,”
Fly, if he knows not when to smite, and why;
Needless to say, in this disastrous matter,
Of the two ways, I wisely chose—the latter!
I left my home; I fled to shades suburban,
Where an old aunt, as deaf as twenty posts,
(A fine antique, bedecked with lace and turban,)
Lived in a house unknown to rats or ghosts;
There, far from party conflicts, proud or petty,
I dwell at peace, with sober Madame Betty!
Where an old aunt, as deaf as twenty posts,
(A fine antique, bedecked with lace and turban,)
Lived in a house unknown to rats or ghosts;
There, far from party conflicts, proud or petty,
I dwell at peace, with sober Madame Betty!
At peace! good lack, the universal virus
Of party strife had captive made the air,
The light, the very sun-motes shifting nigh us,
And thus, alas! it entered even there;
Up, down her stairs, how oft had I to stump it,
Shrieking the news through her infernal trumpet.
Of party strife had captive made the air,
The light, the very sun-motes shifting nigh us,
And thus, alas! it entered even there;
Up, down her stairs, how oft had I to stump it,
Shrieking the news through her infernal trumpet.
Baffled, once more I sought the public pass-ways,
But then, from morn to midnight's “witching noon,”
Monotonous as when some blatant ass brays,
The same mixed clamors rose 'neath sun and moon;
Tilden and Hayes in never-ceasing wrangle,
Who the vexed “snarl” shall ever disentangle?
But then, from morn to midnight's “witching noon,”
Monotonous as when some blatant ass brays,
The same mixed clamors rose 'neath sun and moon;
Tilden and Hayes in never-ceasing wrangle,
Who the vexed “snarl” shall ever disentangle?
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Bank, hall, and market, counting-house and alley,
Patrician parlor and low bar-room den,
Echoed, as 'twere, cries of retreat or rally,
From brassy throats of many thousand men;
Such foolish boasts were blent with threats as silly,
Yet even the wise men babbled—willy nilly.
Patrician parlor and low bar-room den,
Echoed, as 'twere, cries of retreat or rally,
From brassy throats of many thousand men;
Such foolish boasts were blent with threats as silly,
Yet even the wise men babbled—willy nilly.
The very nurse-maids with their baby charges,
Took sides, and squabbled; newsboys shouting loud,
Scuttled along the slippery pavement marges,
And burst like young bulls through the motley crowd
Of parsons, black-legs, dandies, hackmen, bummers;
Swollen each moment by some rash new comers!
Took sides, and squabbled; newsboys shouting loud,
Scuttled along the slippery pavement marges,
And burst like young bulls through the motley crowd
Of parsons, black-legs, dandies, hackmen, bummers;
Swollen each moment by some rash new comers!
Around the telegraph stands they surged and battled,
Till direful Hades seemed unloosed on earth;
Lies were exchanged, cudgels and brickbats rattled;
The veriest blackguard scorned the man of birth,
And tweaked his nose, or knocked his beaver double—
Ah me! the noise, the blows, the furious trouble!
Till direful Hades seemed unloosed on earth;
Lies were exchanged, cudgels and brickbats rattled;
The veriest blackguard scorned the man of birth,
And tweaked his nose, or knocked his beaver double—
Ah me! the noise, the blows, the furious trouble!
I passed a gay “Bazaar,” and glanced within it,
Of silks and satins, what a dazzling maze!
Fair tongues were wagging smartly; every minute,
“Of course 'tis Tilden!” “nay, not so, 'tis Hayes!”
Rose, with the rustle of bright garments blending—
A strife of voices, eager and unending!
Of silks and satins, what a dazzling maze!
Fair tongues were wagging smartly; every minute,
“Of course 'tis Tilden!” “nay, not so, 'tis Hayes!”
Rose, with the rustle of bright garments blending—
A strife of voices, eager and unending!
You'd scarce believe it; but maids fair and tender,
Dancing from school, the merest slips of girls,
Shrilled Hayes or Tilden, and with fingers slender,
Caught and dragged fiercely at each others' curls;
Ill words they spake—those inconsiderate misses—
From rosebud lips just framed for love and kisses!
Dancing from school, the merest slips of girls,
Shrilled Hayes or Tilden, and with fingers slender,
Caught and dragged fiercely at each others' curls;
Ill words they spake—those inconsiderate misses—
From rosebud lips just framed for love and kisses!
Enough! the die is cast; from rage and riot,
I'll cross o'er mountain walls and ocean streams,
To seek and find again, that gracious quiet,
Whose charm hath left me, save in transient dreams:
In some far land and time, my spirit stilled then—
I may—who knows—forgive yoth Hayes and Tilden!
I'll cross o'er mountain walls and ocean streams,
To seek and find again, that gracious quiet,
Whose charm hath left me, save in transient dreams:
In some far land and time, my spirit stilled then—
I may—who knows—forgive yoth Hayes and Tilden!
COQUETTE AND HER LOVER.
A “PETITE COMEDIE” IN RHYME.
LOVER.Coquette! coquette! now, is it fair
To weave for me your magic hair,
Binding me thus, all unaware?
Till, wholly meshed in every part,
From dazzled eyes to captured heart,
Scarce can I, thro' your radiant snare,
Inhale one waft of free-born air;
Answer, coquette! now, is it fair?
COQUETTE.
O, foolish querist! what if I,
Beholding your enamored face
And every well-attested trace
Of verdant, young idolatry,
Should, after my own fashion, choose
To play the subtly-amorous muse,
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Wooing the warm chords overmuch!
Or tempt you, 'twixt a smile and sigh,
To enter beauty's luminous net?
Such snares must evermore be set
For blinded human flies like you!
Cease, therefore, this half-feigned ado,
You are a natural victim! I
Am by the same strange law's decree,
Your dear, predestined enemy!
LOVER.
Is such the only comfort, then,
You give to thrice-deluded men?
Suppose our life-plan quite upset,
Reversed in whole, or changed in part;
My sex your own, and feelings strong,
(Wiled by deep passion's syren song);
Yours the blind victim's tangled heart,
And mine to weave the tempter's net—
What then, O! honey-tongued coquette?
COQUETTE.
Such questions!—ah! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!—
Fancy I've places changed with you!
I cannot! 'tis too hard a task
Of any mortal belle to ask!
[ASIDE with a half-humorous, half-solemn air.
Fancy I've places changed with you!
I cannot! 'tis too hard a task
Of any mortal belle to ask!
Fancy my person changed to his
By some odd metamorphosis!
My fairy frame to that huge bulk
That might befit red Rory O'Fulke,
Our Irish groom!—six feet, at least,
Of stature—with that boundless waist,
Instead of mine, Titania might
Quite envy on a “round-dance” night,
By all the waltzing beaux adored!
My brow to that great, sabre-scored
Brown forehead; and my cheeks of rose
To bearded puffs; my delicate nose—
Quel horreur! 'tis a hideous dream!
By some odd metamorphosis!
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That might befit red Rory O'Fulke,
Our Irish groom!—six feet, at least,
Of stature—with that boundless waist,
Instead of mine, Titania might
Quite envy on a “round-dance” night,
By all the waltzing beaux adored!
My brow to that great, sabre-scored
Brown forehead; and my cheeks of rose
To bearded puffs; my delicate nose—
Quel horreur! 'tis a hideous dream!
LOVER.
For full five seconds, it would seem
As if you really thought, coquette,
On something grave! Slowly about
Your flower-like lips' delicious pout,
Came tiny puckerings, lined with doubt;
Your large eyes widened deep and blue,
As May-skies glimpsed thro' morning dew;
And shadows vague as noon-tide trance
Stole o'er your vivid countenance:
Coquette! show pity!—after all,
Have you resolved to free from thrall
Your wretched serf? ... Close, close your eyes
For one brief, merciful minute; try
To turn your perfect mouth awry;
Let those arch smiles which magnetize
My inmost blood be changed to scorn;
Do all a winsome lady born
To loveliness and witchery, can,
To flout a love-tormented man!
COQUETTE.
You know as well as I
What balms have soothed your slavery;
Besides, I'm sure, whate'er you say,
There never yet has dawned the day
On which, in truth ('tis vain to frown),
You longed to lay your fetters down.
Surely but airy chains they are,
And tenuous as the farthest star.
But should you break the binding net,
You'd come ... (ah! graceless, thankless loon!)
'Ere the next wax or wane of moon,
To sign, or call on “sweet coquette!”
LOVER.
Too much! by heaven! you heartless chit!
I'll prove you underrate my wit,
And self-respect, for all that's passed!
I will—will break these bonds at last.
Yes! look! you false, hard-hearted girl!
I dash to earth the dazzling curl
You gave me once! ... your portrait too! ...
(O, yes! I stole it, ... what of that?
'Twill soon be shapeless, crushed and flat,
Beneath my stern, avenging heel!
Would it were flesh, and so could feel,
... Where is it! where?
[He searches frantically, but vainly for the likeness in one pocket after another.]
[Coquette—approaching with infinite sweetness, rests one hand upon his shoulder, while the forefinger of the other is archly shaken in his angry face, that changes with ludicrous quickness, from passion to bewilderment, and from bewilderment to rapture]:
... Why, Hal, for shame! you prayed just now,
With earnest mien and solemn brow,
That I would sting you with hot scorn;
“Do all a winsome lady born
To loveliness and witchery, can,
To flout a love-tormented man.”
And lo! because your bidding's done;
Half-way, and mildly; why, I've won
Such rude abuse! ... I shall not stir,
Till you have begged my pardon, sir!
... Hal! do you love me? ...
LOVER.
... Angel! saint!
Can this be true! ... my heart grows faint,
With happiness! ... so then, despite—
COQUETTE
(interrupting).
Yes, dear! of feigned contempt and slight,
—I have loved you always! who but you
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You dear, delightful, blundering boy.
LOVER.
... Cupid be blessed! Oh, love! Oh, joy!
... But where's that precious curl I threw
Rashly away? ... Already flown
On some light wind?
COQUETTE.
—Yes, yes, 'tis gone!
But then the whole bright, golden net
(shaking down her curls.)
You've gained with me! ... If still unfair
You deem this soft, imprisoning snare;
And self-respect, for all that's passed,
Demands you break your bonds at last,
Give me due warning—if you please—
LOVER
(embracing her).
Ah! thus a loving seal is set
On rosy lips to keep them dumb;
Some other eve beneath the trees
Of golden summer, 'mid the hum
Of forest brooks and hive-bound bees,
I'll hearken, madcap, while you tease.
But now, my heart the future years
Sees through a mist of blissful tears;
My eyes with gracious dew are wet;
I'm dreaming! ... No! ... here smiles coquette!
SENEX TO HIS FRIEND.
ABOUT THE PERIOD OF A NEW YEAR.
Dedicated to Sam'l Lord, Jr., Charleston, S.C.
Your hair is scant, my friend, and mine is scanter,
On heads snowed white by Time, the disenchanter;
In place of joyous beams and jovial twinkles,
Behold, old boy, our faces scored with wrinkles!
On heads snowed white by Time, the disenchanter;
In place of joyous beams and jovial twinkles,
Behold, old boy, our faces scored with wrinkles!
Sparkles your legal lore with salt that's Attic!
But, ah! those twinges (gout?), those pangs rheumatic!
With muse of mine no more the public quarrels,
But, Lord! how cold I feel despite the laurels!
But, ah! those twinges (gout?), those pangs rheumatic!
With muse of mine no more the public quarrels,
But, Lord! how cold I feel despite the laurels!
If spiced your fame, not so your milk or sago;
Only mild diet suits a sharp lumbago.
While as for me—what critic “puff” avails one
Whose own short breath (asthmatic!) almost fails one?
Only mild diet suits a sharp lumbago.
While as for me—what critic “puff” avails one
Whose own short breath (asthmatic!) almost fails one?
The world we deemed so rife with fadeless prizes—
Which of us most its hollow show despises?
We'd yield our gains for just one marvellous minute
Of our lost youth, with all youth's glory in it!
Which of us most its hollow show despises?
We'd yield our gains for just one marvellous minute
Of our lost youth, with all youth's glory in it!
Yet from this House of Life, now wrapped in twilight,
Gleams 'mid the shadowy roof Faith's magic skylight;
Whereby as night steals down through weird gradations,
We hail the glow of heavenly constellations.
Gleams 'mid the shadowy roof Faith's magic skylight;
Whereby as night steals down through weird gradations,
We hail the glow of heavenly constellations.
So, as through darkness only dawn the graces
Of God's calm stars and lofty shining spaces,
That night called death which shrouds our bodies breathless
May flood the heaven of soul with peace made deathless.
Of God's calm stars and lofty shining spaces,
That night called death which shrouds our bodies breathless
May flood the heaven of soul with peace made deathless.
THE OBSERVANT “ELDEST” SPEAKS.
“Pa vows that all gluttony's wicked;
He's always for docking my meat,
And ne'er at dessert will he give me
Enough of what's racy and sweet:
Yet he'll gorge and gorge on at his dinners,
As restless in mouth as in hand;—
Now, say,—if all gluttons are sinners,
Where—where does my ‘governor’ stand!
He's always for docking my meat,
And ne'er at dessert will he give me
Enough of what's racy and sweet:
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As restless in mouth as in hand;—
Now, say,—if all gluttons are sinners,
Where—where does my ‘governor’ stand!
“Oh! pa's most impressive on lying;
(‘Meanest crime in the annals of sin;’)
Yet why does he tell folk (through Thomas)
That he's out when he knows that he's in?
And ma's done the same, when she meant not
From house nor from chamber to stir:
I suppose what is punished in me, sir,
Is all right in him or in her!
(‘Meanest crime in the annals of sin;’)
Yet why does he tell folk (through Thomas)
That he's out when he knows that he's in?
And ma's done the same, when she meant not
From house nor from chamber to stir:
I suppose what is punished in me, sir,
Is all right in him or in her!
“Pa says, that good men must be generous,
Self-denying, benevolent, kind;’
Then why does he give those poor beggars
Just nothing? The lame and the blind,
Small orphan, and wan, pining widow,
The gold-covered head and the gray,
Unsoothed and unhelped in their sorrows,
From him turn—how sadly—away!
Self-denying, benevolent, kind;’
Then why does he give those poor beggars
Just nothing? The lame and the blind,
Small orphan, and wan, pining widow,
The gold-covered head and the gray,
Unsoothed and unhelped in their sorrows,
From him turn—how sadly—away!
“Pa counsels fair words of our neighbors;—
Oh! he dotes on the pure ‘golden rule;’—
Yet he calls aunt Selina ‘back-biter,’
And he dubs Uncle Reuben ‘a fool.’
And when I said, ‘Young Reub's like his father,’
On what text in reply did pa lean?
Why, ‘Whoso thou fool shall dare utter,’
Must taste—well, you know what I mean!
Oh! he dotes on the pure ‘golden rule;’—
Yet he calls aunt Selina ‘back-biter,’
And he dubs Uncle Reuben ‘a fool.’
And when I said, ‘Young Reub's like his father,’
On what text in reply did pa lean?
Why, ‘Whoso thou fool shall dare utter,’
Must taste—well, you know what I mean!
“Pa says, ‘we must reverence our elders;’—
How he harps and he harps upon that;—
Yet grandfather, who's ninety and upward,
He treats like an imbecile ‘flat.’
And once when poor grandpa, at breakfast,
Mistook the slop-bowl for his cup,
Pa muttured, ‘I wish the old dotard
Were locked—somewhere-heedfully up!’
How he harps and he harps upon that;—
Yet grandfather, who's ninety and upward,
He treats like an imbecile ‘flat.’
And once when poor grandpa, at breakfast,
Mistook the slop-bowl for his cup,
Pa muttured, ‘I wish the old dotard
Were locked—somewhere-heedfully up!’
“I don't know what the ‘governor's’ made of;
But truly, if he were not he,
(I mean if he were not my ‘pater’—
Alack! that such fathers should be,)
His name would begin as I spelt it,
With a big blatant II, if you please,
And conclude with the tiniest, meanest,
But most self-sufficient of e's!”
But truly, if he were not he,
(I mean if he were not my ‘pater’—
Alack! that such fathers should be,)
His name would begin as I spelt it,
With a big blatant II, if you please,
And conclude with the tiniest, meanest,
But most self-sufficient of e's!”
LUCIFER'S DEPUTY.
A MEDIÆVAL LEGEND.
A poet once, whose tuneful soul, perchance,
Too fondly leaned toward sin, and sin's romance,
On a long vanished eve, so calm and clear
None could have deemed an evil spirit near,
Brooding ill deeds, was summoned by a writ,
In the due form of Hades, to the Pit;
A red-nosed, red-haired fiend the summoner,
About whose horrent head his locks did stir
Like half-waked serpents! “Well,” in wrath and woe,
The poet cried, “whom the De'il drives must go,
Whate'er the goal! Yet much I wish that he
Had sent as guide some nobler fiend than thee,
Thou hideous varlet!”
“Come, keep cool, I say,”
Counselled the other sagely, “while you may!”
Whereon, as half in scorn and half in ire,
He haled the poet to the realm of fire.
Too fondly leaned toward sin, and sin's romance,
On a long vanished eve, so calm and clear
None could have deemed an evil spirit near,
Brooding ill deeds, was summoned by a writ,
In the due form of Hades, to the Pit;
A red-nosed, red-haired fiend the summoner,
About whose horrent head his locks did stir
Like half-waked serpents! “Well,” in wrath and woe,
The poet cried, “whom the De'il drives must go,
Whate'er the goal! Yet much I wish that he
Had sent as guide some nobler fiend than thee,
Thou hideous varlet!”
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Counselled the other sagely, “while you may!”
Whereon, as half in scorn and half in ire,
He haled the poet to the realm of fire.
Arrived in bounds Hadéan, a vast rout
Of fiends they met, who rushed tumultuous out,
To roam the earth and those doomed spirits snare
Who unsuspecting lived and acted there;
Till in a few brief seconds the whole crew
Of crowding demons—black, brown, green and blue—
All but their haughty chief, his form upreared
Through the red mist, had wildly disappeared.
Of fiends they met, who rushed tumultuous out,
To roam the earth and those doomed spirits snare
Who unsuspecting lived and acted there;
Till in a few brief seconds the whole crew
Of crowding demons—black, brown, green and blue—
All but their haughty chief, his form upreared
Through the red mist, had wildly disappeared.
Then said the dark archangel to the bard:
“Thine eye is bright, thou hast a shrewd regard;
And, therefore, ere I likewise o'er the marge
Of Hades wing my way for some brief hours,
To thee I choose to delegate my powers
As chief and sovereign of this kingdom dread,
To which, if well thou guardest, by my head
Thy recompense, when I come back, shall be
A luscious tid bit, garnished daintily—
No meaner entrée than a roasted monk,
(Before he's cooked we'll make the rascal drunk,
To spice his juices!); or, if thou'dst prefer
Yon leaner and less succulent usurer,
Why, of our toil and time with trifling loss,
We'll serve him up, larded with golden sauce!”
But while the absent fiends their cunning tasked
To trap unwary souls, thick cloaked and masked,
One entered Hades who did soon entice
The heedless bard to play a game at dice,
Staking the souls he held in charge thereon.
The stranger played superbly—played, and won.
So, gathering round him the freed souls, with care
And kind despatch, safe to the outward air
He led them triumphing; and all who now
Looked on his unmasked face and glorious brow
Knew that St. Peter stood amongst them there.
But when the devils, trooping homeward, found
Their kingdom void—its conflagrations drowned
As 'twere by showers from Heaven—such curses rose—
Like thunder bellowing through the strange repose
Which late had reigned—the poet's head whirled round,
Stunned by the tumult. But ere long, with whirr
And furious whizz, his right hand Lucifer
Brought in such stinging contact with one cheek
And then the other, that our minstrel, weak
From pain and fear, sank trembling on the floor.
But sternly Satan pointed to the door,
Where through his faithless guard, with many a kick
And echoing thump, and one swift merciless prick
Of a keen pitchfork, was thrust forth in shame
From out the empire of fierce grief and flame,
In even more woeful plight than when he came!
Then Lucifer upraised his arms and swore
A mighty oath that Hades' lurid door
No poet's form should ever enter more!
So, brother bards, whate'er ye write or do,
Be fearless. Hades holds no place for you:
Since if on earth men deem your worth but small,
Why there, 'tis plain, ye have no worth at all!
“Thine eye is bright, thou hast a shrewd regard;
And, therefore, ere I likewise o'er the marge
Of Hades wing my way for some brief hours,
To thee I choose to delegate my powers
As chief and sovereign of this kingdom dread,
To which, if well thou guardest, by my head
Thy recompense, when I come back, shall be
A luscious tid bit, garnished daintily—
No meaner entrée than a roasted monk,
(Before he's cooked we'll make the rascal drunk,
To spice his juices!); or, if thou'dst prefer
Yon leaner and less succulent usurer,
Why, of our toil and time with trifling loss,
We'll serve him up, larded with golden sauce!”
But while the absent fiends their cunning tasked
To trap unwary souls, thick cloaked and masked,
One entered Hades who did soon entice
The heedless bard to play a game at dice,
Staking the souls he held in charge thereon.
The stranger played superbly—played, and won.
So, gathering round him the freed souls, with care
And kind despatch, safe to the outward air
He led them triumphing; and all who now
Looked on his unmasked face and glorious brow
Knew that St. Peter stood amongst them there.
But when the devils, trooping homeward, found
Their kingdom void—its conflagrations drowned
As 'twere by showers from Heaven—such curses rose—
Like thunder bellowing through the strange repose
Which late had reigned—the poet's head whirled round,
Stunned by the tumult. But ere long, with whirr
And furious whizz, his right hand Lucifer
Brought in such stinging contact with one cheek
And then the other, that our minstrel, weak
From pain and fear, sank trembling on the floor.
But sternly Satan pointed to the door,
Where through his faithless guard, with many a kick
And echoing thump, and one swift merciless prick
Of a keen pitchfork, was thrust forth in shame
354
In even more woeful plight than when he came!
Then Lucifer upraised his arms and swore
A mighty oath that Hades' lurid door
No poet's form should ever enter more!
So, brother bards, whate'er ye write or do,
Be fearless. Hades holds no place for you:
Since if on earth men deem your worth but small,
Why there, 'tis plain, ye have no worth at all!
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |