 | A letter about the lions |  |
3
LETTER TO MABEL IN THE COUNTRY.
You bid me set my fancy free,
Oh! loved and lovely Mabel!
And tell you all I hear and see
In this bewildering Babel.
Oh! loved and lovely Mabel!
And tell you all I hear and see
In this bewildering Babel.
But all I see and all I'm told,
Till night, from early morn here,
I wouldn't tell for all the gold
Unfound in California.
Till night, from early morn here,
I wouldn't tell for all the gold
Unfound in California.
4
It is a very wicked world,
My guileless little cousin!
I know a belle whose hair is curled
With love-notes by the dozen.
My guileless little cousin!
I know a belle whose hair is curled
With love-notes by the dozen.
I know a “blue” who buys boquets,
And sends them to herself, dear;
And when her friends come in, they praise
The love-gifts on the shelf, dear.
And sends them to herself, dear;
And when her friends come in, they praise
The love-gifts on the shelf, dear.
I know a man who writes some stuff
In praise of all his books—
You ought to see him read the puffs,
And how demure he looks!
In praise of all his books—
You ought to see him read the puffs,
And how demure he looks!
5
I know a critic so refined
He'll read no book he praises,
Lest he should bias thus a mind
Whose subtlety amazes!
He'll read no book he praises,
Lest he should bias thus a mind
Whose subtlety amazes!
I know a painter—paints, to-day,
A picture deeply shaded,
And cracks the surface every way,
To make it “worn and faded.”
A picture deeply shaded,
And cracks the surface every way,
To make it “worn and faded.”
To-morrow comes the connoisseur,
All pomp and proud precision,
“Two thousand dollars”—no demur—
He buys it for a Titian!
All pomp and proud precision,
“Two thousand dollars”—no demur—
He buys it for a Titian!
6
I know a Magazine, that shows
A constellation cover,
Of every “star” whom Genius knows
In his blue Heaven a rover:
A constellation cover,
Of every “star” whom Genius knows
In his blue Heaven a rover:
But look within and you shall catch
No ray of all that glory;
The love-tale there can never match
The wondrous outside story.
No ray of all that glory;
The love-tale there can never match
The wondrous outside story.
I know a poet, pale and thin,
A scintillating sinner,
Who still contrives to make a din,
But scarce can make a dinner.
A scintillating sinner,
Who still contrives to make a din,
But scarce can make a dinner.
7
But why thus waste my Helicon,
When I might fill a canto
With all the tidings of the tide
That sets to Sacramento.
When I might fill a canto
With all the tidings of the tide
That sets to Sacramento.
I know an editor distressed
To find the “root of evil;”
I know a printer that's “possessed,”—
At least he “hath a devil.”
To find the “root of evil;”
I know a printer that's “possessed,”—
At least he “hath a devil.”
Some go for folly, some for fun,
And some for gold or glory,
And all have set their hearts upon
This dear Dorado story.
And some for gold or glory,
And all have set their hearts upon
This dear Dorado story.
8
Now fades the gorgeous East afar,
They read not Lane or Pardoe;
They talk no more of Cholerà,
But only Colorado!
They read not Lane or Pardoe;
They talk no more of Cholerà,
But only Colorado!
For other news, not much my line
In fashion's stream can fish up:
There was a concert quite divine,
By brilliant Anna Bishop.
In fashion's stream can fish up:
There was a concert quite divine,
By brilliant Anna Bishop.
The minstrel-painter, “Doric Read,”
Has been a book inditing;
His glowing tints are music-tones,
His words are picture-writing.
Has been a book inditing;
His glowing tints are music-tones,
His words are picture-writing.
9
And our “May-Flower,” that put to sea,
With pilgrim-faith undying,
Triumphantly sails into port,
With all her colors flying.
With pilgrim-faith undying,
Triumphantly sails into port,
With all her colors flying.
The first has portraits of the “blues,”
Not blue since he has crowned them;
A halo all “coleur de rose,”
He kindly flings around them.
Not blue since he has crowned them;
A halo all “coleur de rose,”
He kindly flings around them.
And all the soul he did not draw—
And he drew out his share—
The engraver Pease by instinct saw,
And boldly called up there.
And he drew out his share—
The engraver Pease by instinct saw,
And boldly called up there.
10
His graver's a divining-rod,
That finds where Beauty should be,
And makes us all—however odd—
Not as we are, but would be.
That finds where Beauty should be,
And makes us all—however odd—
Not as we are, but would be.
And Griswold, with his taste refined,
And rare discrimination,
Resets in purest, richest gold,
The pearls of all the nation.
And rare discrimination,
Resets in purest, richest gold,
The pearls of all the nation.
Like Tennyson, he gives the world
His “vision of—blue women,”
And paints them with impartial pen,
And critical acumen.
His “vision of—blue women,”
And paints them with impartial pen,
And critical acumen.
11
See the dear Child of Love and Truth,
Whose genius rich, bewildering,
Keeps “Rainbows” in a diamond pen,
And writes them out “for children.’
Whose genius rich, bewildering,
Keeps “Rainbows” in a diamond pen,
And writes them out “for children.’
And she, whose fairy godmother,
Gay Fancy, came to thrill her,
Who sparkled in a “Golden Ball,”—
Our radiant “Cinderella!”
Gay Fancy, came to thrill her,
Who sparkled in a “Golden Ball,”—
Our radiant “Cinderella!”
Oh! if this little shoe should fit,
Come out, you hidden princess!
And take the throne of grace and wit,
Your airy verse evinces!
Come out, you hidden princess!
And take the throne of grace and wit,
Your airy verse evinces!
12
And Grace, the glorious girl of girls,
Whose wondrous eyes are shaded
So softly by those truant curls,
They must not be upbraided!
Whose wondrous eyes are shaded
So softly by those truant curls,
They must not be upbraided!
Oh! mount again the wingéd steed!
Dash—dash away, uncaring!
And chant, while wildly on you speed,
Your lays of “Love and daring!”
Dash—dash away, uncaring!
And chant, while wildly on you speed,
Your lays of “Love and daring!”
Oh! Edith May—thou fair, young ‘fawn!’
Was that thine own sweet story?
Oh, Alice Lee! change ‘Night’ for ‘Morn,’
Change ‘Memory’ for Hope's glory!
Was that thine own sweet story?
Oh, Alice Lee! change ‘Night’ for ‘Morn,’
Change ‘Memory’ for Hope's glory!
13
Sweet Welby! in your “Sea shell” sing
And weave your spirit-spell!
Dear Hewitt! sculpture cameos,
From your melodious shell!
And weave your spirit-spell!
Dear Hewitt! sculpture cameos,
From your melodious shell!
While Embury, like a zephyr, plays
The “Eolian harp”—how sadly!
And graceful Fanny Forester
Her bird-song warbles gladly.
The “Eolian harp”—how sadly!
And graceful Fanny Forester
Her bird-song warbles gladly.
Macdonald summons rosy June,
The late, but lovely comer,
And rosy June has heard the tune,
For all the page is Summer!
The late, but lovely comer,
And rosy June has heard the tune,
For all the page is Summer!
14
And those young sisters of the lyre,
The tender, pure and airy,
They 're sunward larks, with wings of fire,
Not “chickens”—“Mother Carey!”
The tender, pure and airy,
They 're sunward larks, with wings of fire,
Not “chickens”—“Mother Carey!”
And Sigourney, upon the sea
Of verse our kindly pilot,
Whose bark still floats, with stainless sail,
By many a lovely islet.
Of verse our kindly pilot,
Whose bark still floats, with stainless sail,
By many a lovely islet.
There is a book—you must not read—
Although 'tis there the spice is,
A very saucy book indeed,
'T is called “New York in Slices.”
Although 'tis there the spice is,
A very saucy book indeed,
'T is called “New York in Slices.”
15
This cutter up of cities gives
An Epicurean dinner,
And carves some “blue birds,” wings and all,
Most daintily—the sinner!
An Epicurean dinner,
And carves some “blue birds,” wings and all,
Most daintily—the sinner!
And there's another out by Holmes,
The pet of all the Muses;
And Lowell's too, who gaily roams,
In verse, where'er he chooses.
The pet of all the Muses;
And Lowell's too, who gaily roams,
In verse, where'er he chooses.
Alas! full many a name sublime,
We've idolized in story,
Stretched on the rack of Lowell's rhyme,
Has lost its olden glory.
We've idolized in story,
Stretched on the rack of Lowell's rhyme,
Has lost its olden glory.
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Oakes-Smith, who sweeps her Sapphic lyre,
As if a seraph fanned her,
From out her sybil soul of fire,
Has sent a “Salamander.”
As if a seraph fanned her,
From out her sybil soul of fire,
Has sent a “Salamander.”
'Twill burn the critics, if they touch
Its wings, with malice snarly!—
Who wouldn't buy a book, with such
Delicious dreams by Darley?—
Its wings, with malice snarly!—
Who wouldn't buy a book, with such
Delicious dreams by Darley?—
The happy darling of the Arts,
Whose pencil rare can cater
For all our tastes—nay, all our hearts!
Illustrious illustrator!
Whose pencil rare can cater
For all our tastes—nay, all our hearts!
Illustrious illustrator!
17
And Lynch, on leaves that shall not fade,
Has written lines immortal,—
On laurel leaves, that crown the maid—
Her passport at Fame's portal.
Has written lines immortal,—
On laurel leaves, that crown the maid—
Her passport at Fame's portal.
I heard a poem, weeks ago,
I only wish 'twere printed,
For Genius, with its heavenly glow,
Each line of beauty tinted.
I only wish 'twere printed,
For Genius, with its heavenly glow,
Each line of beauty tinted.
A graceful flower of song was it,
Found in a Field, not green,
But rich in golden sheaves of wit,
Where one sweet Ruth may glean.
Found in a Field, not green,
But rich in golden sheaves of wit,
Where one sweet Ruth may glean.
18
You've often heard the Taylor-bird,
The muse's “mio caro,”
Whose wings have waved on Alpine heights,
Oh! daring Bajadéro!
The muse's “mio caro,”
Whose wings have waved on Alpine heights,
Oh! daring Bajadéro!
Oh! dream another “wayside dream!”
Or sing Bavaria's daughters,
Or tell how El Canalo flew,
By “Tulé's icy” waters!
Or sing Bavaria's daughters,
Or tell how El Canalo flew,
By “Tulé's icy” waters!
But where's the Raven, who could sing,
To thrill the rudest soul once,
Who higher soared, on wounded wing,
Than others, with their whole ones?
To thrill the rudest soul once,
Who higher soared, on wounded wing,
Than others, with their whole ones?
19
Brave Whittier takes an eagle flight,
With fervent minstrel-fire,
And o'er his land, Love's halo-light
Floats proudly from his lyre.
With fervent minstrel-fire,
And o'er his land, Love's halo-light
Floats proudly from his lyre.
And Longfellow still nobly writes,
And Emerson speaks roses;
But Halleck hymns no “Fanny” now!
And Bryant mute reposes!
And Emerson speaks roses;
But Halleck hymns no “Fanny” now!
And Bryant mute reposes!
Yet Hirst! be not that “Tilt” the “last”
Of all thy splendid pageants!
And Whipple—flourish high thy whip!
Most true of satire's agents!
Of all thy splendid pageants!
And Whipple—flourish high thy whip!
Most true of satire's agents!
And Wallace, breathe thy glowing soul,
In words of thrilling rapture!
And Eastman, dip thy dainty pen,
Some lady-bird to capture!
In words of thrilling rapture!
And Eastman, dip thy dainty pen,
Some lady-bird to capture!
20
Some on the Jewsharp torture time,
And some guitars are stringing,
And some the organ play sublime,
Our spirits heavenward winging;
And some guitars are stringing,
And some the organ play sublime,
Our spirits heavenward winging;
Our “Sybil” sweeps her silver lute,
And H--- a trumpet's tuning,
But P---'s wild harp too long is mute,
Unless some lay he's crooning.
And H--- a trumpet's tuning,
But P---'s wild harp too long is mute,
Unless some lay he's crooning.
And Willis sleeps, with silken curls
Upon his lyre and laurels,
While Mapleson restrings his “Pearls,”
And --- --- hunts for morals.
Upon his lyre and laurels,
While Mapleson restrings his “Pearls,”
And --- --- hunts for morals.
But stay—my chain of radiant names
A precious gem would lack,
If I should not link thine with them,
Oh! bard of Frontenac.
A precious gem would lack,
If I should not link thine with them,
Oh! bard of Frontenac.
21
His starry flag has Hoffman furled?
He's writing something, I think;
He's left the Literary World—
That World belongs to Duyckink!
He's writing something, I think;
He's left the Literary World—
That World belongs to Duyckink!
Of painters—Page is busy still,
With his pictorial wonders;
And Huntington, with heavenly skill,
Alternates paints and ponders.
With his pictorial wonders;
And Huntington, with heavenly skill,
Alternates paints and ponders.
The prudent ones at home remain,
Nor would, from tranquil bliss, go;
But fearless Osgood's off again,
To merrier San Francisco.
Nor would, from tranquil bliss, go;
But fearless Osgood's off again,
To merrier San Francisco.
To Fame's rare breeze, his canvas bright
No more he gives undaunted;
By canvas, touched with heaven's own light,
By wilder winds, he's haunted!
No more he gives undaunted;
By canvas, touched with heaven's own light,
By wilder winds, he's haunted!
22
Last Friday, our Art-Union made
Its annual distribution—
I have a lovely scene by Ball,
So Hope was no illusion.
Its annual distribution—
I have a lovely scene by Ball,
So Hope was no illusion.
The “Voyage of Life,” by gifted Cole,
Was called the prize, by courtesy;
But some would rather—on the whole—
Have won the one by Leutze.
Was called the prize, by courtesy;
But some would rather—on the whole—
Have won the one by Leutze.
In Astor Place the other night,
There was an uproar petty:
For Mr. Fry was trying to fright
Rebellious Benedetti!
There was an uproar petty:
For Mr. Fry was trying to fright
Rebellious Benedetti!
What taste, what skill, what genius rare,
Our manager possesses,
Since all the birds of song in air
Fly tamely to his jesses!
Our manager possesses,
Since all the birds of song in air
Fly tamely to his jesses!
23
One feast Apician tempts us all,
For given by a true man 'tis;
Th' enthusiast, Giles, at Clinton Hall
Reads lectures on Cervantes.
For given by a true man 'tis;
Th' enthusiast, Giles, at Clinton Hall
Reads lectures on Cervantes.
The children all are “Christmas-mad,”
They start at every knocking,
And wonder how Old Nick will come,
And when he'll stock their stocking!
They start at every knocking,
And wonder how Old Nick will come,
And when he'll stock their stocking!
Some people call our Christmas tree
And all our fun ridiculous,
But here's a heart-warm health to thee,
Oh! quaint and kind St. Nicholas!
And all our fun ridiculous,
But here's a heart-warm health to thee,
Oh! quaint and kind St. Nicholas!
You'd scorn, I fear, the folly here,
You—with your healthy nurture;
Our belles are made of—batting, dear,
Our souls—of gutta-percha!
You—with your healthy nurture;
Our belles are made of—batting, dear,
Our souls—of gutta-percha!
24
Our beaux, who should our spirits raise,
Can only raise moustaches;
Oh yes! they sometimes “raise the wind,”
And “cut”—not “sticks”—but “dashes.”
Can only raise moustaches;
Oh yes! they sometimes “raise the wind,”
And “cut”—not “sticks”—but “dashes.”
The weather? either bawl or rout,
The gods of storm begin,
“All hail!” as in Macbeth without,
While I am hale within.
The gods of storm begin,
“All hail!” as in Macbeth without,
While I am hale within.
But at my door behold a form,
A gay and half insane beau!
Who brings me sunshine through the storm,
My unexpected rain-beau!
A gay and half insane beau!
Who brings me sunshine through the storm,
My unexpected rain-beau!
And so good night, my dark-eyed sprite,
My peerless, fearless Mabel!
When will you fold your wings of light
In our bewildering Babel?
My peerless, fearless Mabel!
When will you fold your wings of light
In our bewildering Babel?
| A letter about the lions | |