 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
95
VIII.
'T was a vast, majestic dry-goods store,Into whose portals from every shore
Came cashmeres, satins, and silks, and shawls,
To flood the counters and fill the halls:
There Paris sent its delicate gloves,
With mantles, “Such beauties!” and bonnets, “Such loves!”
And China yielded from primitive looms
Its silks shot over with changeable blooms,
While India's golden tissues blent
With camel's-hair from the Syrian's tent.
At each counter was something,—not man, not boy,—
A sort of effeminate hobbledehoy,
And over the laces it simpered and smiled,
And blandly each feminine idiot beguiled
With “Charmingest fashion!” and “Is n't it sweet?”
“Just allow me to show you—remarkably neat!”
“No pattern is like it—on honor—in town,
Just becomes your complexion,—shall I put it down?”
And its frippery fingers went dabbling through tapes,
And its glozing discourse was of trimmings and capes,
And to see its expressionless eyes you 'd have thought
That its soul, like its tapes, had been long ago bought.
As the work-girl gazed on this muscleless crew,
Who were doing the things she was suited to do,
She sighed, “Ah me! ah me! ah me!
This is the place where I should be!”
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |