t I TT HO LOGY \t i IX -. Illustration"; hy if&G! > ? j UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 00022228082 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill http://archive.org/details/ourgirlspoemsinpOOchri . Jjo<«Jr-ifCil«JisV £V ■ vaunt, I say, unwelcome wight, >hjess thou comest to adore her ; Fofteven Time forgets his flight nd stands with ravished eyes before h< Samuel Minturn Peck 10/ THE FOOTBALL GIRL. Eyes that are clear as the sparkling air When the frost-sprinkled forests flame. Cheeks all aglow with the daintiest red. Wind-tossed hair round a graceful head, Bonny and blithesome beyond compare — Hail to the Queen of the Game! There are courage and hope in her eyes so brown. And she raises the blue flag high; And winning or losing, till all is done. She is true to her colours and cheers them on. With the Yale blue violets in her gown — Fair symbol of loyalty. III. There is much that is dear in the victor's prize — Honour, applause, and fame, But when the strife ends in a victory. The first and the best which the winners see Is a swift flashing signal from Beauty's eyes — A smile from the Queen of the Game. Then here's to the maid who begins her reign When the dead leaves race and whirl ! Hearty and loud is the praise I bring, For fairest of all is the maid I sing. So fill up your glasses and pledge again A toast to the Football Girl! Raymond W. Walker. A SEASIDE FLIRTATION. With sorrow in her eyes of blue, With trembling hands, she slowly penned it- The little parting billet-doux That conscience told her now should end it. Those tete-a-tetes along the shore, Those gipsyings with fern-filled basket, Must join the dear delights of yore, And only live in memory's casket. There never was a heart like Jack's: He told his passion in his glances. She sealed her note with scented wax, But could not drown her dismal fancies. When he should read his suit denied, So long the theme of idle gazers. She pictured him a suicide, And shuddered at the thought of razors I At last she slept — but not 'til dawn Had blossomed through the ocean vapours. Jack conned her missive with a yawn When he had read the morning papers. He gave his beard a languid twirl, And murmured, as he sat a-smoking, "Tear-stained — By Jove! — poor little girl — I thought she knew that I was joking!" Samuel Minturn Peck. THE SKATER BELLE Along the ice I see her fly With moonlit tresses blown awry, And floating from her twinkling feet Are wafted sounds as silvery sweet As April winds when May is nigh. Is it a Naiad coy and shy? Or can it be the Lorelei Who lures me with her rare deceit? It is the hour for magic meet; Resist the spell, 'twere vain to try. Her beauty thrills the earth and sky From glowing cheek and flashing eye; And as she wanders fair and fleet The spangled branches bend to greet And wave a kiss as she goes by. Samuel Minturn Peck EVE'S DAUGHTER. I waited in the little sunny room ; The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play. The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come. "Such an old friend, — she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, Danae in her shower ! and fit to slay All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow. "She would not make me wait!" — but well I She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so! E. R. Sill. Jtf A CUP AND SAUCER EPISODE. Twas only coffee, yet we both drank deep, I won't deny I felt intoxication; For just to see those roguish moon-eyes peep Over the cup, I plunged in dissipation. She raised her cup, and I raised also mine ; She gave a look, as if "Now are you ready?" Our eyes met o'er the rims — it seemed like wine. So sweet, divine, bewitching, almost "heady." So cup on cup! The salad, too, was good. I had of that far more than my fair rations. Yet served it merely as an interlude Between the music of the cup flirtations. And then to have her say 'twas all my fault! I fairly blushed, and gazed down at my cup. I noticed, though, she had not called the halt Until the pot was empty, every sup. Harvard Advocate. FAINT HEART. My lady fair Her golden hair Lets fall a-down her shoulder. I'd steal a tress, — She's no redress, — Were I a little bolder. From her sweet lip A bee might sip, Sweeter than rose-leaf's savor. A kiss I'd take, — No cry she'd make, — Were I a little braver. Her neat, trim waist Just suits my taste; Close in my arms I'd fold her. And clasp her tight, — She'd feel no fright, — Were I a little bolder. She's waiting now 'Till I find how To ask of her a favor. She'll be my wife, — I'd stake my life, — When I'm a little braver. Dartmouth Literary Monthly. ALICIA'S BONNET Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, And many humming-birds were fastened on it. I sat beside Alicia at the play; Her violet eyes with tender tears were wet (The diamonds in her ears less bright than they) For pity of the woes of Juliet: Alicia's sighs a poet might have set To delicate music in a dainty sonnet. Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, And many humming-birds were fastened on it. And yet to me her graceful ready words Sounded like tinkling silver bells that jangled, For on her golden hair the humming-birds Were fixed as if within a sunbeam tangled, Their quick life quenched, their tiny bodies mangled, Poor pretty birds upon Alicia's bonnet. A DAINTY HAND Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, And many humming-birds were fastened on it. Caught in a net of delicate creamy crepe, The dainty captives lay there dead together ; No dart of slender bill, no fragile shape Fluttering, no stir of any radiant feather: Alicia looked so calm, I wondered whether She cared if birds were killed to trim her bonnet Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, And many humming-birds were fastened on it. If rubies and if sapphires have a spirit. Though deep they lie below the weight of earth If emeralds can a conscious life inherit And beryls rise again to winged birth Being changed to birds but not to lesser worth — Alicia's golden head had such upon it. Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet. And many humming-birds were fastened on it What rapid flight! Each one a winged flame, Burning with brilliant joy of life and all Delight of motion ; to and fro they came, An endless dance, a fairy festival ; Then suddenly I saw them pause and fall. Slain only to adorn Alicia's bonnet. Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, And many humming-birds were fastened on it. My mind came back from the Brazilian land; For, as a snowflake falls to earth beneath, Alicia's hand fell lightly on my hand ; And yet I fancied that a stain of death, Like that which doomed the lady of Macbeth, Was on her hand: could I perhaps have won Last night Alicia wore a Tuscan bonnet, d many humming-birds were fastened on Elisabeth (Cavazza) MY PLAYMATE The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, Their song was soft and low; The blossoms in the sweet May wind Were falling like the snow. The blossoms drifted at our feet. The orchard birds sang clear; The sweetest and the saddest day It seemed of all the year. For, more to me than birds or flowers, My playmate left her home, And took with her the laughing spring, The music and the bloom. She kissed the lips of kith and kin, She laid her hand in mine: What more could ask the bashful boy Who fed her father's kine? Ofc She left us in the bloom of May: The constant years told o'er Their seasons with as sweet May morns. But she came back no more. I walk, with noiseless feet, the round Of uneventful years; Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring And reap the autumn ears. She lives where all the golden year Her summer roses blow; The dusky children of the sun Before her come and go. There haply with her jewelled hands She smooths her silken gown, — No more the homespun lap wherein I shook the walnuts down. MY LOVE Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far. Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone. And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow 98 Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot ; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings. And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is ; God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. IDLENESS AN AFTERTHOUGHT. 'Twas in the Amid the She with her I with my I still can see Flit softly With rapture To view h garden chatting, mignonette, — snowy tatting, cigarette, her fingers in and out; memory lingers er lips a-pout. A happy sunbeam glancing Upon a wayward curl Set every pulse to dancing; And turned my brain a-whirl; And when she looked up shyly, I could not help, you see. But stoop and kiss her slyly, Behind the apple-tree. Strange that some mote forever Should mar the rays of bliss! Though conscious I had never Yet won so sweet a kiss, Alas! the act of plunder So gracefully she bore, I could not choose but wonder, Had she been kissed before? S. M. Peck. The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair I linger in delicious pain ; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, — "Auf wiedersehen!" 'T is thirteen years ; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, I hear, — "Auf wiedersehen!" Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these — they drew us heart to heart. Yet held us tenderly apart; She said, — "Auf tviedersehen!" GIRL She studies Hendrik Ibsen "to cultivate her mind," And reads Shakespeare and Browning through and through; Meanwhile she knits her brows — it is the only kind Of fancy work this modern maid can do. Concordiensis. MAUD MULLER Maud Muller on a summer's day Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down. The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast, — A wish that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. And asked a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "Thanks!" said the Judge; "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown And her graceful ankles bare and brown; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! That I the Judge's bride might be! And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again! "Free as when I rode that day. Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein; And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls; The weary wheel to a spinet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned. And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again. Saying only, "It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these: "It might have been!" Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away! John Greenleaf Whittier 'Twas April when she came to town; The birds had come, the bees were swarm- - ing Her name, she said, was Doctor Brown : I saw at once that she was charming. She took a cottage tinted green, Where dewy roses loved to mingle; And on the door, next day, was seen A dainty little shingle. Her hair was like an amber wreath; Her hat was darker, to enhance it. The violet eyes that glowed beneath Were brighter than her keenest lancet. The beauties of her glove and gown The sweetest rhyme would fail to utter. Ere she had been a day in town The town was in a flutter. The gallants viewed her feet and hands. And swore they never saw such wee things ; The gossips met in purring bands And tore her piecemeal o'er the tea-things. The former drank the Doctor's health With clinking cups, the gay carousers; The latter watched her door by stealth. Just like so many mousers. But Doctor Bessie went her way Unmindful of the spiteful cronies, And drove her buggy every day Behind a dashing pair of ponies. Her flower-like face so bright she bore, I hoped that time might never wilt her. The way she tripped across the floor Was better than a philter. Her patients thronged the village street; Her snowy slate was always quite full. Some said her bitters tasted sweet; And some pronounced her pills delightful. 'Twas strange — I knew not what it meant — ■ She seemed a nymph from Eldorado; Where'er she came, where'er she went. Grief lost its gloomy shadow. Like all the rest, I too grew ill ; My aching heart there was no quelling. I tremble at my doctor's bill, — And lo! the items still are swelling. The drugs I've drunk you'd weep to hear! They've quite enriched the fair concocter. And I'm a ruined man, I fear, Unless — I wed the Doctor ! Samuel Minturn Peck WIl EDITH. Edith, the silent stars are coldly gleaming, The night wind moans, the leafless trees are still. Edith, there is a life beyond this seeming, So sleeps the ice-clad lake beneath thy hill. So silent beats the pulse of thy pure heart, So shines the thought of thy unquestioned eyes. O life! why wert thou helpless in thy art? O loveliness! why seem'st thou but surprise? Edith, the streamlets laugh to leap again ; There is a spring to which life's pulses fly; And hopes that are not all the sport of pain, Like lustres in the veil of that gray eye. They say the thankless stars have answering vision, That courage sings from out the frost-bound ways ; Edith, I grant that olden time's decision — Thy beauty paints with gold the icy rays. AT THE BALL They bow at the end of the "Lancers, And turn to the fairest of all; — "Shall we sue in vain for a ballad?" They say to the Belle of the Ball. Then a hush falls over the dancers, — A hush they know not why; And she seems as one who is dreaming As she sweeps them slowly by. The smile so lately wreathing Her lips of deepest red Is gone, and the feverish glitter That flashed from her eyes has fled. Around her witching dimples, Where the ruby current flows, They note with silent wonder The lily banish the rose. ii*tf3 Gi.hk. L:;riitv AT THE PLAY Then over the harp-strings bending. She sings an old love-song, And the dancers gather around her, A gay and thoughtless throng. "What a wonderful depth of feeling!" They whisper, and stare with surprise; She sings, unheeding the murmur, With a far-away look in her eyes. She sees not the dazzling lustres, She sees not the crowd looking on; And the song flows on as plaintive As the song of the dying swan. She thinks of a gallant trooper Who sailed to a foreign strand; Her eyes are dim for a lover Who fell in a distant land. « A PORTRAIT. A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed; A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown, Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown Wreathed round with lilac blooms ; and on her breast A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest. Ah ! lilac lady, step from your gold frame. Between that starched old Bishop and the dame In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire And trip a minuet. You will not? — Fie! Those mocking lips half make me wish that I, Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire. Trinity Tablet. A WABAN RIPPLE. ANONYMOUS. The Wellesley girls say. As at vespers they pray: "Help us good maids to be; Give us patience to wait Till some subsequent date: World without men — ah me!" — Cap and Gown. A FAIR ATTORNEY Alas! the world has gone awry Since Cousin Lillian entered college, For she has grown so learned I Oft tremble at her wondrous knowledge. Whene'er I dare to woo her now She frowns that I should so annoy her. And then proclaims, with lofty brow. Her mission is to be a lawyer. Life glides no more on golden wings, A sunny waif from Eldorado; I've learned how true the poet sings. That coming sorrow casts its shadow. When tutti-frutti lost its spell, I felt some hidden grief impended; When she declined a caramel, I knew my rosy dream had ended. She paints no more on china plaques, With tints that would have crazed Murillo, Strange birds that never plumed their backs When Father Noah braved the billow. Her fancy limns, with brighter brush. The splendid triumphs that await her, When, in the court, a breathless hush Gives homage to the keen debater. 'Tis sad to meet such crushing noes From eyes as blue as Scottish heather; 'Tis sad a maid with cheeks of rose Should have her heart bound up in leather. 'Tis sad to keep one's passion pent. Though Pallas' arms the Fair environ But worse to have her quoting Kent When one is fondly breathing Byron. When Lillian's licensed at the law Her fame, be sure, will live forever; No barrister will pick a flaw In logic so extremely clever. The sheriff will forget his nap To feast upon the lovely vision. And e'en the Judge will set his cap At her, and dream of love Elysian. Samuel Minturn Peck UNDER THE MISTLETOE. She stood beneath the mistletoe That hung above the door. Quite conscious of the sprig above. Revered by maids of yore. A timid longing filled her heart; Her pulses throbbed with heat; He sprang to where the fair girl stood. "May I — just one — my sweet?" He asked his love, who tossed her head, "Just do it — if — you dare!" she said. He sat before the fireplace Down at the club that night. "She loves me not," he hotly said, "Therefore she did but right!" She sat alone within her room. And with her finger-tips She held his picture to her heart. Then pressed it to her lips. My loved one!" sobbed she, "if you carei ou sure would have — would have — dar George Francis Sh A RHYME FOR PRISCILLA. Dear Priscilla, quaint, and very Like a modern Puritan, Is a modest, literary, Merry young American; Horace she has read, and Bion Is her favourite in Greek ; Shakespeare is a mighty lion In whose den she dares but peek; Him she leaves to some sage Daniel, Since of lions she's afraid — She prefers a playful spaniel, Such as Herrick or as Praed; And it's not a bit satiric To confess her fancy goes From the epic to a lyric On a rose. Wise Priscilla, dilettante, With a sentimental mind, Doesn't deign to dip in Dante, And to Milton isn't kind; L' Allegro, II Penseroso Have some merits, she will grant. All the rest is only so-so- — Enter Paradise she can't! She might make a charming angel (And she will if she is good, But it's doubtful if the change'll Make the Epic understood) ; Honey-suckling, like a bee she Goes and pillages his sweets, And it's plain enough to see she Worships Keats. Gay Priscilla — just the person For the Locker whom she loves; What a captivating verse on Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves He could write in catching measure, Setting all the heart astir! And to Aldrich what a pleasure It would be to sing of her — He, whose perfect songs have won her Lips to quote them day by day. She repeats the rhymes of Bunner In a fascinating way, And you'll often find her lost in — She has reveries at times — Some delightful one of Austin Dobson's rhymes. Priscilla, sweet Priscilla, Writing of you makes me think. As I burn my brown Manila And immortalise my ink, How well satisfied these poets Ought to be with what they do When, especially, they know it's Read by such a girl as you: 1 who sing of you would marry Just the kind of girl you are — One who doesn't care to carry Her poetic taste too far — One whose fancy is a bright one, Who is fond of poems fine, And appreciates a light one Such as mine. Frank Dempster Sherman. ONE SATURDAY I never had a happier time. And I am forty-three, Than one midsummer afternoon, When it was May with me : Life's fragrant May, And Saturday, And you came out with me to play ; And up and down the garden walks, Among the flowering beans, We proudly walked and tossed our heads And played that we were queens. Thrice prudent sovereigns, we made The diadems we wore, And fashioned for our royal hands The sceptres which they bore; But good Queen Bess Had surely less Than we, of proud self-consciousness. While wreaths of honeysuckle hung Around your rosy neck, And tufts of marigold looped up My gown, a "gingham check." ' 1 -■ . Jf,~ |U IW.'SJ J "il.%-1 i k>K.>.|.s.i) DOLLIE Our chosen land was parted out, Like Israel's, by lot; My kingdom, from the garden wall Reached to the strawberry plot: The onion-bed, The beet-tops red. The corn which waved above my head. The gooseberry bushes, hung with fruit, The wandering melon-vine. The carrots and the cabbages, All, all of them, were mine! Beneath the cherry-tree was placed Your throne, a broken chair ; Your realm was narrower than mine, But it was twice as fair: Tall hollyhocks, And purple phlox, And time-observing four-o'clocks. Blue lavender, and candytuft. And pink and white sweet peas, Your loyal subjects, waved their heads In every passing breeze. ie twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths, by foot unpresse re not more sinless than thy breast holy peace that fills the air those calm solitudes is there. W. C. BRYAN! HELEN The autumn seems to cry for thee, Best lover of the autumn days! Each scarlet-tipped and wine-red tree. Each russet branch and branch of gold, Gleams through its veil of shimmering haze. And seeks thee as they sought of old: For all the glory of their dress, They wear a look of wistfulness. In every wood I see thee stand. The ruddy boughs above thy head, And heaped in either slender hand The frosted white and amber ferns, The sumach's deep, resplendent red, Which like a fiery feather burns. And, over all, thy happy eyes, Shining as clear as autumn skies. ■ I hear thy call upon the breeze. Gay as the dancing wind, and sweet. And, underneath the radiant trees, O'er lichens gray and darkling moss. Follow the trace of those light feet Which never were at fault or loss, But, by some forest instinct led, Knew where to turn and how to tread. Where art thou, comrade true and tried? The woodlands call for thee in vain. And sadly burns the autumn-tide Before my eyes, made dim and blind By blurring, puzzling mists of pain. I look before, I look behind ; Beauty and loss seem everywhere. And grief and glory fill the air. Already, in these few short weeks, A hundred things I leave unsaid, Because there is no voice that speaks In answer, and no listening ear, No one to care now thou art dead! And month by month, and year by year, I shall but miss thee more, and go With half my thought untold, I know. I do not think thou hast forgot, I know that I shall not forget. And some day, glad, but wondering not, We two shall meet, and, face to face, In still, fair fields unseen as yet, Shall talk of each old time and place, And smile at pain interpreted By wisdom learned since we were dead. "Susan Coolidge" Fair Gertrude lives at Farmington, Perhaps you've seen her there; Her eyes delight in laughing light, Let gods describe her hair; Her figure — well, grave Juno ne'er Had half the supple grace Of Gertrude fair of Farmington — Perhaps you know that place? Beneath her lips there gleam two rows Of greed-inspiring pearls; Such rows of teeth the gods bequeath To but their choicest girls. For other things at Farmington I do not care a rap, Although it is a lovely plao I've seen it (on the map) THE UNATTAINABLE. Tom's album was filled with the pictures of belles Who had captured his manly heart. From the fairy who danced for the front-row swells To the maiden who tooled her cart; But one face as fair as a cloudless dawn Caught my eye, and I said, "Who's this?" "Oh, that," he replied, with a skilful yawn, "Is the girl I couldn't kiss." Her face was the best in the book, no doubt, But I hastily turned the leaf, For my friend had let his cigar go out. And I knew I had bared his grief: For caresses we win and smiles we gain Yield only a transient bliss, And we're all of us prone to sigh in vain For "the girl we couldn't kiss." Harry Romaine. 147 ^ \ MY LADY ON THE LINKS A BALLAD OF DOROTHY. It's "Dorothy! Where's Dorothy?" From morn to even fall, There's not a lad on Cowslip Farm Who joins not in the call. It's Dolly here and Dolly there, Where can the maiden be? No wench in all the countryside's So fine as Dorothy. With tucked-up gown and shining pail. Before the day is bright, Down dewy lanes she singing goes Among the hawthorns white. Perchance her roses need her care, She tends them faithfully. There's not a rose in all the world As fresh and sweet as she! With morning sunshine in her hair A-churning Dolly stands; Oh, happy churn, I envy it, Held close between her hands; And when the crescent moon hangs brigB Athwart the soft night sky, Down shady paths we strolling go, Just Dorothy and I. As true of heart as sweet of face,. With gay and girlish air, The painted belles of citydom Are not a whit as fair, ne Michaelmas the parish chimes Will ring out merrily. |is the bride I lead to church? by, who but Dorothy? Williams Literary Monthly! 149 THE SPIRIT OF SUMMER. A little maiden with golden curls Slipped into my life one April day, Treading the grasses with merry feet, Her arms full of cowslips and violets sweet With a circlet of green on her rippling curls And sang to me on my way. Through all the springtime I watched her grow More beautiful daily, till stately and tall, 'Mid gardens of roses and lilies, in June, She danced to the sound of the birds' sweet tune, And richer and fuller her voice would flow Than the songs of the waterfall. And in the Autumn at harvest time, She passed through the orchards and shocks of corn, All wreathed in yellow and red and brown, Bearing fruit in a fold of her russet gown. By presses flowing with rich new wine, — To the sound of the hunter's horn. I ts THE BEAUTY OF BALLSTON. After Praed (P). In Ballston — once a famous spot, Ere Saratoga came in fashion — I had a transient fit of what The poets call the "tender passion"; In short, when I was young and gay, And Fancy held the throne of Reason, I fell in love with Julia May, The reigning beauty of the season. Her eyes were blue, and such a pair ! No star in heaven was ever brighter; Her skin was most divinely fair; I never saw a shoulder whiter. And there was something in her form (Juste em-bon-poini, I think they term it) That really was enough to warm The icy bosom of a hermit! In sooth, she was a witching girl, And even women called her pretty, Who saw her in the waltz's whirl, Beneath the glare of spermaceti; Or if they carped — -as Candor must When wounded pride and envy rankle — 'Twas only that so full a bust Should heave above so trim an ankle! 154 One eve, remote from festive mirth, We talked of Nature and her treasures. I said: "Of all the joys of earth, Pray name the sweetest of her pleasures. ' She gazed with rapture at the moon That struggled through the spreading beeches And answered thus: "A grove — at noon — A friend — and lots of cream and peaches!" I spoke of trees — the stately oak That stands the forest's royal leader; The whispering pine; and then I spoke Of Lebanon's imperial cedar; The maple of our colder clime; The elm, with branches intermeeting. She thought the palm must be sublime, And — dates were very luscious eating! I talked about the sea and sky, And spoke with something like emotion. Of countless pearly gems that lie Ungathered by the sounding ocean. She smiled, and said (was it in jest?) Of all the shells that Nature boasted She thought that oysters were the best — "And, dearest, don't you love 'em roasted?" AFTERNOON TEA TOUJOURS AMOUR. Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does Love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen; But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little Archer there. Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin! "Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember; Ask some younger lass than I!" Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face! "Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!" S^