Bnqlidh @ollection THE GIFT OF 3ames Morgan Hart PR 5115.077P5""""""""-"'"'^ ii™SaP?,?.!ri?..Yers de societe. 3 1924 013 531 607 ^71 T^ Piccadilly poems VEJiS DE SOCI&T& The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013531607 ?r3^v-5^ 0< a PICCADILLY POEMS VERS DE SOCIETE j: L.' OWEN AUTHOR OF "LYRICS FROM A COUNTRY LANE" ETC., ETC. * The laughter of a London June," — Lord Houghton THE ROXBURGHE PRESS Fifteen, Victoria Street Westminster THOMAS CATLING, Esq. EDITOR OF "LLOYD'S WEEKLY NEWSPAPER" \ THESE "Ipfccabill^ poems" ARE INSCRIBED (in REMEMBRANCE OF THE KINDLY ENCOURAGEMENT AND APPRECIATION EXTENDED TO THE AUTHOR UPON HIS FIRST ENTRANCE INTO LONDON LITERARY LIFE) BY J. LAWTON OWEN PREFACE A PREFACE to a volume of verse is usually an apology for its appearance. In the case of the present collection of vers de soct^te (which consists mainly of lyrical pieces, re- claimed from the m^azines to which they were first contributed), no such apology is tendered. It is neither a maiden effort, nor an attempt to cljmb those peaks of Parnassus, to which I have neither the presumption nor the wish to soar. Twenty years have flown since, in the sunny days of sentiment and youth, I had the temerify to publish my first volume of Lyrics from a Country Lane (dedicated to the late Lord de Tabley, one of the most graceful of 8 PREFACE. recent singers), and received such kindly en- couragement from the press and public alike, as might well have inspired further efforts. Yet, successful as it was, that almost forgotten volume, long out of print, was my first and last — for busy years of journalistic life ensued, leaving little leisure for song. Then, tempted by the glittering " lights o' London," I came to town and jostled with the crowd. Hence this sheaf of London lyrics, or batch of Bohemian and Babylonitish ballads, which, for lack of a better title, are termed Piccadilly Poems. It is a far cry from "a country lane" to a fashionable London highway of the gilded West ; from the pastoral musings of one's minority to those of mature manhood — when one has dipped into the vortex of Vanity Fair, and seen both the sunlight and shadow of human life. If occasional notes of flippancy, cynicism, or satire, are found in these fin de siecle verses, I trust an obvious moral may be PREFACE. 9 drawn from even these simple songs of a great City's gaieties and cares. Most of them are conceived in " lighter vein," to suit the spirit of the time, and to echo that "laughter of a London June" which, alas ! is often blurred with tears. I would rather write life's lyrics than its sermons, and prefer to leave philosophy to the preachers. J. L. O. CONTENTS PICCADILLY . A ROMANCE OF THE "ROW" A ROMANCE OF MAYFAIR AN OCTOBER NOCTURNE AN EVENING STAR AN actor's story DECEMBER ROSES A CHRISTMAS CAROL . THE DANSEUSE SCANDAL A BALLAD OF BOXING NIGHT A ROMANCE OF FAIRYLAND MY lady's fan THE WORLD AND THE WOMAN A MODERN ROMANCE . A FEBRUARY FOLLY . AN OLD LOVE-LETTER IN PICCADILLY CIRCUS IN LEICESTER SQUARE A MARCH WIND PAGE "7 21 24 27 29 31 33 35 37 39 40 42 45 47 49 51 54 56 58 60 12 CONTENTS. A SOCIAL CONTRAST APRIL THOUGHTS MAY A LONDON JUNE AT CHURCH PARADE MIDSUMMER ROSES JUNE AND JUNO A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM A ROSE IN JUNE WOMANHOOD A BALLAD OF DERBY DAY IN JULY AT HENLEY A ROMANCE OF THE RIVER STANZAS THE FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOWS A BALLAD UP TO DATE A SEA-SONABLE SONG . BENEATH A SUNSHADE FAGB 6i 66 68 70 72 74 76 78 8o 8i 82 84 86 88 91 92 94 97 100 PART II. ^B Xaag'B ipowOetsipuff, atiD otbec ipoeme. MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF THE BIRTH OF THE FAN THE MAN FROM MARS THE ANGEL AND THE SUN A LAY OF ST. VALENTINE 105 112 114 118 120 CONTENTS. A HOLIDAY ROMANCE A MAY SONG THE fairies' rest BRUNETTE AND BLONDE THE NUT-BROWN MAID BESIDE THE SEA GOLDENHAIR THE HEATHER BELLE AT MARGATE A STORY OF THE SEA "SET fair" "by the sad sea waves" (a a flirtation a bachelor girl a summer sonnet . A MEMORY . A DECEMBER SORROW A REAL HERO A NEW year's RETROSPECT SEPTEMBER STORY) 13 PAGE 122 1 25 127 130 136 138 141 143 146 149 ISO 1 54 156 158 IS9 161 163 168 PRELUDE Pray take these idle songs for what they are, As simple strummings on a gay guitar, The dilettante ditties of Mayfair, Echoes of London life from park and square, Lyrics of love and passion breathed in town, Wafted on summer winds like thistle-down. And yet a vital and integral part Of the great city's mighty human heart. PICCADILLY. MORNING. Through the golden highway to the West, Let us pass while day is at its best, In the pure unsullied light of dawn, Ere Piccadilly begins to yawn And rub its eyes, when the raree show And the pageant passes down below ; Ere Clubland wakes from fitful sleep, After libations long and deep. Let us pass while blinds are still undrawn, To the people's park and level lawn, Where wooden benches have formed the beds For the homeless outcasts' weary heads, Where the unwashed faces meet the morn With a sense of shame, and look forlorn, When welcome warmth from the rising sun Tells them the damp dark night is done. 1 8 PICCADILLY. From the land of grime to that of gold They wandered beneath Night's sable fold ; The waifs and strays of the human tide, Jetsam and flotsam from far and wide, To rest for awhile their wretched forms — Battered and bruised by lifelong storms ; Then slouched away when the sun uprose, Whither ! Ah, whither ? God only knows. NOON. From Piccadilly to Rotten Row The gay equipages come and go, Empanelled with coronet and crest. For " strawberry leaves " are thick out West. Aladdin's palace could not compare With many mansions in proud Mayfair, Nor the wealth of famed Golconda's mine With the gold and gems of Fashion's shrine. Shimmering satins, and silks, and lace. Lend the lissome figures added grace ; And Beauty wears her brightest smile As she flashes through the Lady's Mile, Or, daintily draped, rides round the Row, Making a gay and a gallant show ; PICCADILLY. 19 And butterfly belles make rich parterres Of colour amid the crowded chairs. Day after day in Vanity Fair, The pursuit of Pleasure fills the air, Voluptuous scents, and sights, and sounds. Excite the passions beyond all bounds. And the breath of scandal fans to flame The fire that scorches with sin and shame. Yet the rich man's Mecca, the maiden's quest, Is the shrine of Mammon in the West. NIGHT. In Piccadilly when night comes round, The revellers at the feast are found — Where jewelled bosoms with passion's sighs Heave neath the gaze of amorous eyes. And electric lights may scintillate On scenes of jealousy, love, or hate ; Where fair women move with forms divine, Their soft cheeks flushing with warmth and wine. The Countess steps from her lighted hall. Gossamer-clad to the Carnival — With priceless diamonds upon her breast. While sprays of pearls in her dark hair rest. 20 PICCADILLY. Deftly she swishes her skirts aside, And passes the courtesan with pride — For her fallen sister sins for bread. But my lady lives to sin instead. The Countess knows she will dance to-night With the noble roui who brought the blight On that fair young girl, who fled from home. In Piccadilly by night to roam. And in the vortex of London life How many " go under " in the strife ! Like autumn leaves when the wild wind blows- Whither ! Ah, whither ? God only knows. A ROMANCE OF THE "ROW." The Countess drove through the Park to-day In stately barouche and pair. Her eyes had a look that was far away When she saw me riding there. I raised my hat with a courtly grace, And I even dared to smile ; She " cut me dead," although — face to face — We passed by the " Lady's Mile." Her delicate nostrils curved in pride. Her eyes had a steel-grey glare, As I rode close by the carriage side She met me with stony stare. The blase old Earl sat by her side, Gouty, rheumatic, and glum ; As full of port — and family pride — As even a Prince's chum. 2 2 A ROMANCE OF THE "ROW." " Strawberry leaves " on the panels smart, And a gilded coronet, Caused me as though from a dream to start, And think of how first we met. One winter down in a Midland shire I was making holiday, The guest of a plain old country squire, In a quiet sort of way. I met the belle of the county there ; Again at the county ball, A yeoman's daughter, among the fair, Was the fairest of them all ; With sylph-like figure and perfect face ; But she was a born coquette. One day she fled from her native place — With whom is a mystery yet. Then as a belle of burlesque, you know, At a playhouse in the Strand, She made her debut in the front row Of a scene in " Fairyland." Her chic, abandon, and native grace, Her beauty, and supple form, Her wondrous eyes, and radiant face, Took " Society " by storm. A ROMANCE OF THE "ROW." 23 Then jewels gleamed on her neck and arms, And bouquets rained at her feet ; The stalls were filled to gaze on her charms, And admire her ankles neat. Night after night Lord Moribund sat In his box above the stage, And swore, as he crushed his opera hat, To give her a gilded cage. He became an Earl, and caged his bird, And decked her in plumage fine. Which he cares for most I have not heard — His wife, his horses, or wine ! A ROMANCE OF MAYFAIR. Yes, she was " a flirt, and a rattle " — A dear little dimpled coquette ; Though worsted in love's foolish battle, I 'm under her influence yet. We met — in the height of the season — At Mulberry House, in Mayfair ; I fancied — with some show of reason — I had of her smiles a fair share. We met — ah ! the words have a meaning Some stoics may not understand ; I long shall remember her leaning Her plump little lily-white hand On my arm as I took her to supper, I felt in a dream of delight ; She quoted from Browning and Tupper, And read me — like music — at sight. A ROMANCE OF MAYFAIR. 25 We danced — I will not say how often We waltzed to the strains of Ostlere ; Her low, mellow voice seemed to soften, Though she was as proud as " De Vere." Who was I ? Why, only a painter — An Academy artist — but, still. When she knew, my chances grew fainter, I was only just struggling up hill. Who was she ? A millionaire's daughter ! A match for a Marquis or Earl ! And I — well. Love's lesson I taught her. Amid all the season's gay whirl. But what were my talents — my chances Of fame — to a finished coquette ? Yet, in the divinest of dances, 'T were better we never had met. But after the season was over, And Maude had migrated from town To smile at her midsummer lover, And I — well, it's no use to frown. Look ! here is her portrait — I painted It merely from mem'ry, you know, But no face more fair, nor so sainted. Was seen in the Park or the " Row." 26 A ROMANCE OF MAYFAIR. 'T was well that the season was over, Our flirtation, too, at an end ; 'T is well I 'm no longer her lover, And she is no longer my friend, For now she^s engaged to be married ; The heir to an Earldom, they say, A " star '' from my heaven has carried. And my midsummer dream fades away. AN OCTOBER NOCTURNE. The days decline ; the skies are growing clouded. For " chill October," like a ghost, is here To warn us that the year will soon be shrouded. And that the Autumn waneth, sad and sere. The windblown leaves are drifting down the hollows. The seagulls sailing over marsh and main ; We long to follow Summer and the swallows — Far from our land of mists and Autumn rain. But 'mid the mirk and gloom of grey October The sunbeams sometimes silver angry skies, Like flash of Summer flung where, sere and sober, The fading year, 'mid dead leaves, slowly dies ; 28 AN OCTOBER NOCTURNE. And so the memory of a lost love brightens The embers on the altar of my heart ; A dream of you each Autumn beauty heightens, Though, like the fallen leaves, we drift apart. 'Twas in the Spring we met, in Autumn parted. Between the two shone my Midsummer dream ; They say you smile — and still are broken- hearted. And I am left with but that fitful gleam Of Summer lost — a harvest ripe for reaping, P'r'aps to be gathered by some stranger hand. I sometimes fancy that your love is sleeping — That you will wake, my love to understand. If, in the days to be, you grow world-weary, Your beauty fading like the Autumn leaves ; Come back to me, and I will never query ; Sufficient for me if your own heart grieves. I only know that you can bring back Summer To brighten of my life the wintry part ; Sometimes Love lingers — like a tardy comer, Then gilds the sunset in a stricken heart. AN EVENING STAR. Dear, dimpled darling of the dance, With arching instep poised on high, A love-beam lurking in each glance, A world of passion in each sigh. Whence came you with your fairy grace ? A child of Nature fresh and fair, With perfect figure, and a face Crowned with sun-gleams of golden hair. I saw you with the castanets, I watched you dance the Seguadille With motions of old minuets. And touches of a French quadrille. You were delightful in it all — A poem you personified ; No fairy at a carnival Or wood-nymph with you could have vied. 30 AN EVENING STAR. And yet I should have much preferred To find you in the country fields, Where leaves are drifting down wind-stirred, And Nature her rich harvest yields. And here you, too, might yield your charms (Far from the footlights' dazzling glare), And safe within a lover's arms, Rest where the rabble cannot stare. Why should you choose a life like this ? And bare your beauty to the stalls. To throw an audience a kiss For plaudits, when the curtain falls ? Ah ! once I claimed that kiss as mine. And fancied you were mine alone ; Now, as an evening " star " you shine. And other satellites you own. AN ACTOR'S STORY. I SOMETIMES wonder whether I was dreaming, When, in the season, one short year ago, I saw the lovelight in your bright eyes beaming. When rhododendron blossoms were aglow. I often questioned whether it was madness That I, poor fool of Fortune, loved you so. Yet knew that some time I should reap but sadness. And that my rapture would but end in woe. And even as, now you and I are parted, You p'r'aps may make your lord the best of wives ; The world deems man is never broken- hearted, And yet, how many men lead broken lives ? I was your hero — for a time — poor mummer ! A hero heightened by the footlights' glare ; Your love just lasted through a fleeting summer, And then it melted into empty air. 32 AN ACTOR'S STORY. I saw you, Countess, in your diamonds gleaming, As in your box you sat, some nights ago ; / played to you, although my soul was dreaming Of all that passed between us once, you know. I know I grew impassioned in my pleading, I knew the house shook with a storm of cheers — And yet of their applause I was unheeding, I saw you struggle to repress your tears. It was my holir of triumph. I, an actor. Presumed too much when once I sought your hand ; But surely Love is not a malefactor — The part I played you well could understand. And so, my lady ! you have made the mummer. Poor and despised by you, a rising " star," Because he played to you — and for one summer You played at love, then married Lord Dunmar. DECEMBER ROSES. A CLINGING kiss on crimson lips, That rival e'en the roses' tips, Which may be stolen on the stairs When Beauty passes unawares, And pauses 'neath the mistletoe — Where eyes with love-light are aglow ; Then swiftly glides to dance or pose With heightened colour — like the rose — Where brilliant ball-room lights may show Pure lily-breasts like drifted snow. A dreamy languor in the air, A sense of perfume everywhere. Where women move with forms divine, Pale faces flushed with waltz and wine. So our December roses glow. Some false as fair, some chaste as snow. But no rose-garden, nor parterre. Can show a scene so passing fair. For living poems move around, To music's most voluptuous sound. C 33 34 DECEMBER ROSES. And Eden never could compare With only one fair woman there. While here, in one resplendent room, Scores of Eve's daughters blush and bloom, December roses, rich and rare. The choice exotics of Mayfair. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. " WITHIN" AND " WITHOUT." The grand old greybeard comes again ; The king of mirth and pleasure ; With peace and plenty in his train, And lap brimful of treasure. Song greets him with a glad refrain And music's merriest measure. In West-end squares the halls are bright, In mansions gay and splendid ; Without, there may be frost and blight On human lives descended — Within, are floods of brilliant light, Without — the unbefriended. In England's stately homes and halls The banquet boards are spreading, On costly plate the radiance falls As for a Royal wedding ; Without, the " small voice " faintly calls. And human tears are shedding. 36 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. Within are diamonds flashing bright On snowy bosoms gleaming, And bright eyes sparkle with the light Which sets young lovers dreaming. And, vampire-like, Wealth stalks at night, For youth and beauty scheming. Without, the poor unfortunate Steals from the slums, where, hidden From scornful eyes, and rank, and State, Crime's children go unchidden ; And want stands at the pauper's gate — A Christmas guest unbidden. But in the mansions of Mayfair, Where jewels blaze and brighten, If queenly beauties, debonair, Their damask cheeks would heighten With pleasure, let them something spare, Some load of care to lighten. THE DANSEUSE. I SAW her for the dance arrayed — On tiptoe poised in pantomime ; I knew her as a country maid, One well-remembered summer-time. Ah ! what a dimpled, simple, sweet, And radiant Arcadian maid She was, and with such dainty feet. The daisies kissed them in the glade. The summer sunshine seemed to fling A halo o'er her golden hair (And now 'tis black £is raven's wing. And limelight follows everywhere). Her voice melodious as the birds', Made music in my empty heart — Until, with rapture filled — but words Failed me to play the lover's part I missed her from the country-side When autumn gave its goodly yields ; But though I wandered far and wide 1 only found the stubble fields. w 38 THE DANSEUSE. And then, by accident, I heard My pretty country bird had flown, And all the hearts of men were stirred — A new danseuse had come to town. And so I strolled into the stalls, And saw her for the dance arrayed — There, where the telltale limelight falls, You too may see my country maid ; " Senora Celli " in the bills — I knew her as Mathilda Gray, When once, among her native hills, I kissed her on a summer's day. I see the " make-up " on her face Where roses mingle red and white. But she has won an added grace, And wondrous diamonds flashing bright. I know her hair was glossy gold. And now 't is raven, I repeat, While some old noble, I am told. Has flung his fortune at her feet. SCANDAL. The wind first wafted it around, And breathed it in the Square, Then each street seemed to catch the sound. And spread it through Mayfair. And Mrs. Jones told Mrs. Brown, Who said some tongue had lied. But still she told it round the town. And added more beside. And Mrs. Smith said, " Let it pass," Yet passed it down the line ; And Mrs. Grundy said, " Alas ! That secret first was mine." And so that scandal grew and grew, A cause cdebre came. And one fond husband's faith it slew, And one fair woman's fame. A BALLAD OF BOXING NIGHT. It was down at Brighton, by the way, At a ball on Boxing Night, When Lady Beatrix Mandalay Was the queen of a scene as bright As ever a mortal gazed upon, Or ever a Sultan planned ; Electric light in the ball-room shone, And moonlight upon the strand. I saw the willowy figures glide And sway in the mazy dance, And billowy bosoms, like the tide. Rise and fall as waves advance. But those waves were warm, and jewels bright Gleamed on that human tide. And luminous eyes shed softer light Than even the moon outside. And Lady Beatrix Mandalay Was leaning upon my arm ; Our hearts beat time as we waltzed away, With never a thought of harm. A BALLAD OF BOXING NIGHT. 41 It might be the music cast a spell, Or the whirl of that witching dance, Or the diamond necklace which rose and fell On the snowdrifts 'neath my glance. I do not know, and I do not care, But the ball-room lights grew dim, For we both passed into the moonlit square, And down to the ocean's brim. The moonbeams sparkled upon the snow, Like the diamonds on her breast. Which, screened with an ermine furbelow. Yet heaved with a wild unrest. The stars were winking above, we knew, And the strand gleamed white with snow The man in the moon, p'r'aps, jealous grew, At the love-scene down below. We never felt cold that Boxing Night, With the love-glow in each breast. For close to my heart I clasped her tight, And the moon knows all the rest. A ROMANCE OF FAIRYLAND. I MET her at a masquerade — A Covent Garden carnival ; In fancy dress she was arrayed The daintiest damsel at the ball. She was the " Queen of Fairyland," And I was " Father Christmas " grey ; And so, I sHly took her hand, In quite a ^ure paternal way. So, like old Falstaff rubicund, And merry with both maids and wine. Old Father Christmas has a fund Of fancy for a maiden fine. So I grew perfect in my part. And saw bright eyes mischievous glance; Like Santa Claus, I gave my heart To Beauty, for one thrilling dance. I asked " Her Majesty " her name — She told me 't was Priscilla Browne ; And when I questioned whence she came, She shyly answered " Camden Town." A ROMANCE OF FAIRYLAND. 43 It was a shock, I must admit ; A poem in her peerless grace. With pretty feet, and nimble wit. And, ah ! the fairest form and face. I asked where we might meet again. She murmured, sweet as music falls, " To-morrow night at Drury Lane PVaps I might see you in the stalls." I went, and there — upon the stage — Divinest figure in the row, Stood " Puck " (her dress became the rage At fancy balls a year 3%o). A little later she became An airy fairy Columbine (But now she 's danced her way to fame), I wished the part of Clown were mine. I scorned the sound of Camden Town, She danced her way into my heart ; And so I wed Priscilla Browne, And now she plays a better part. If Covent Garden boasts such flowers, And fairies haunt old Drury Lane, What care we for the country bowers, Made chilly by the snow and rain ? 44 A ROMANCE OF FAIRYLAND. We have our own bright Fairyland, Where limelight floods the glowing glade, And fairies pose on either hand, And sirens dance in light and shade. MY LADY'S FAN. She raised her fan behind her head, So fair of face was she, A sacred nimbus seemed to spread From that rich filigree. And form a background ; Nature's self Was aided thus by Art, One fancied that each winged elf Was armed with Cupid's dart. The painted fairies on her fan Were not more fair than one Who held it, and its arching span Like some saint's halo shone. Transfigured by the light of love The face it framed so well, And as I gazed on her above Her glances on me fell. 45 46 MY LADY'S FAN. It might be that my gaze was rude As I stared from my stall ; One scornful look my soul subdued, And slew Love once for all. She brought her fan before her face To screen her splendid eyes ; And on its obverse I could trace An imp mocked my surprise. THE WORLD AND THE WOMAN. The world was wide, and the maiden fair, A sunset light on her auburn hair, The blue of heaven was in her eyes, Her soul serene as the summer skies. The world was bright and the maiden young, With never a thought or dream of wrong ; Her heart was light, and her conscience clear With never a sign of danger near. The world was gay, and the maiden knew Pleasures were many ; but she had few. For she grew up as a wayside flower. Her wondrous beauty her only dower. The world was tempting, the maiden true To the rustic lover who came to woo ; But her heart still sighed for something more. Like a captive bird she fain would soar. 48 THE WORLD AND THE WOMAN. So " over the hills, and far away '' The maiden went in the twilight grey. The world had opened its door to her And brought her a titled worshipper. The jewels danced on her guilty breast, Her soul was filled with a vague unrest For the simple youth she left behind ; But she was dazzled, and Love was blind. Fine linen, and silks, and tempting gold Were hers ; — but, alas ! my lord grew cold. The world was won, at a bitter cost, A woman was wrecked, and Love was lost. The world grew dark, when her youth was gone, And gold and jewels no longer shone ; My lord rolled by in his gilded state. He had made choice of a peerless mate. The world and the woman are at war ; And what is there left worth fighting for ? Only a grave in the distant hills : And she is living " the pace that kills." A MODERN ROMANCE. We might have married years ago Had we known each other better — You were coquettish, I was slow, And we both disHked the fetter. For I was proud, and you were pert — Changeful as the April weather ; I always then abhorred a flirt — You and Gus were oft together. 'T was rumour ruined Gus and you — He was married, but no matter ; And his divorce caused much ado, How society will chatter ! If you were guiltless, as you say. This bad world did not believe it ; And I, myself, was led astray — Married money — much to grieve it. 50 A MODERN ROMANCE. But now my ancient prude is dead, Peace be with her where she dozes. And I have found you, still unwed, Vying with the full-blown roses. Your figure 's not so sylph-like, still Its gracious curves are finely rounded, And in ripe womanhood you fill Me with a rapture all unbounded. I 've sown my oats, broadcast, and you Have had one slip, despite denial, Let both forget (again I sue), And give our love a lifelong trial. A FEBRUARY FOLLY. 'T WAS in the spring-time, years ago. When life and love were young together, We cared not whether shine or snow — Our hearts were warmer than the weather. Love lurks in spring-time, wet or fine ; Love scorns a sermon or a reason ; Love such as yours and such as mine Is, surely, never out of season. I met you at a country house. Beneath the mistletoe I kissed you, When Christmas held a long carouse — Then, all at once, one day I missed you. It seems you were recalled to town — Your father's temper was contrary ; And you went back to Babylon, My dear, delightful, dimpled fairy. When next I saw you, in the " swim," Your hand wais pledged to one above you, And yet I saw a shadow dim Those eyes that made me learn to love you; SI 52 A FEBRUARY FOLLY. The spring was waking, and the earth With snowdrops supplemented holly ; I thought of mistletoe and mirth. Then cursed my February folly. My love was deepened — yours was dead, Or simply slumbered — a volcano ; I was dismayed — discomfited — And you — engaged to Earl Belgano. But still your eyes shot forth a flame When next we met — (Oh, fickle fairy !) That made me dream a daring game — But men are fools in February. My lord knows not, the night before St. Peter's saw your stylish wedding, / kissed you, sweet — yea, ten times o'er. Despite the tears your eyes were shedding. I thank my stars my horoscope Warned me in time, and I resisted The strong temptation to elope. Or blight your morrow — we desisted. And you went to your ancient lord As white as wax, except for kisses (Imprinted, where such wealth was stored. On ripe red lips) no bridegroom misses. A FEBRUARY FOLLY. 53 But such a crisis, all in vain. And such a night of melancholy, I would not pass for worlds again — I call it February folly. AN OLD LOVE-LETTER. I TAKE it Up with tender care From safe and secret resting-place, A curl of shining, golden hair. In faded filigree and lace. The gilded tissue shows some stains, The lace and ribbon soiled by time. But bright that lock of hair remains, While ink is faint upon the rhyme. I immolate myself to-day Upon Love's long-surrendered shrine. Remembering how one passed away Who sent me this old Valentine. I kiss (as I was wont to do) More gently still the silken strands. I fear lest this may crumble too, So put it back with careful hands. AN OLD LOVE-LETTER. 55 I look upon this talisman, This one love-token of the past. Remembering how our love began. And how it grew too deep to last. 'T was when a maiden's heart was pure, And men too noble to betray. When love a lifetime might endure, Or until one should pass away. And one has " passed," and one remains Still faithful to his cherished vow. And treasures still the very stains That smirch an old love-letter now. The old Arcadian days have fled. And men and women worldly grown ; St. Valentine himself is dead. But memory lives on alone. IN PICCADILLY CIRCUS. Beside the monstrous fountain, see, she stands, A flower-girl, with violets in her hands And others in her eyes of rival blue, Which from the flowers seem to catch their hue. From an old Surrey garden straight she came To vend the home-grown flowers, nor dreamt of shame. Nor gibes, nor taunts, and sneers, her fair young face Drew from the wanton women of the place. Who jeer and laugh, and say, " Fresh to the. trade. How long before she joins the street parade?" Where "fallen sisters" flaunt their brazen charms. And scoff" at virtue and its chaste alarms. " How long indeed ? " May some protecting hand Sustain the orphan when she takes her stand ! 56 IN PICCADILLY CIRCUS. 57 Or mingles with the crowd, where painted sin Stalks, like the clowns their canvas walls within. A " Circus !" 'T is well-named, in very truth, Where flaring lights attract old age and youth (As moths to flame), and profligates, who prey Like hawks upon the doves who hither stray. A " Circus," where both town and country clowns May see life's somersaults, or "ups and downs." Where some may ride and others hold the rein, And rampant revels cut the night in twain. IN LEICESTER SQUARE. Night's noon is nigh, and it is Folly's hour — When Pleasure's palaces from portals wide Let loose the gay and giddy human tide, And revellers their last libations pour To bright-eyed Beauty fickle, fair, and frail. While Passion breathes the old seductive tale In willing ears. The lights of Leicester Square Flash heavenward above the human lair, Where gleams the gorgeous Empire, and the jets Light the Alhambra's Moorish minarets, While one pale moonbeam falls upon the face Of sculptured Shakespeare, in the central space. Oh ! what a satire on the scene it seems — That one who gave us such Midsummer Dreams As grace the stage still with their sylvan spells. Seems listening to the wild, voluptuous swells S8 IN LEICESTER SQUARE. 59 Of ballet music, by his muse inspired, Where coryphees, in gossamer attired, Like Nautch girls dance. Ah ! could the marble lips Be moved to language, what would Shake- speare say About the robes in which Titania skips, And frolic Pucks their lissom limbs display? Is there a blush upon that marble brow, Or is it but the Moorish lanterns' glow ? A MARCH WIND. Blow, bitter March wind, blow ! Your breath is cold — Too cold for her whose lips are ripe and warm ; And yet you clasp her like a lover bold. And show her classic grace and perfect form. March wind, I envy you your wild embrace, Your amorous dance that wantons with her hair. And brings the colour to her lovely face. And makes it seem more radiant and fair. Yet you impede her progress, as she goes Like a spring sunbeam down the dingy street, And still your rude caress more boisterous grows — Displaying such a dainty pair of feet. So like a maiden coy at first, but soon Yielding her beauty to love's fond embrace, She pants for freedom, while, as rose in June, The tell-tale blushes deepen in her face. A SOCIAL CONTRAST. A Ballad of East and West. iV£Sr. Once a stylish congregation Thronged a church in Eaton Square, Crowded in to see the nuptials Of a well-matched titled pair ; For my Lord Amontillado Married Lady Muscatel, Who had shone throughout a season As the richest reigning belle. Shapely maidens shrugged their shoulders, Gleaming white, in opera stalls, Through their garments dicollette. Which the world " the fashion " calls ; For they whispered that the dancer. By the " smart set " most adored. Had been honoured by the amours Of Amontillado's lord. 6i 62 A SOCIAL CONTRAST. Nay ! they said my lady knew it — Charming Lady Muscatel ; But my lord had no misgiving Of her little lapse as well. He was bald, and he was blase. He had run the roue's rounds ; But — his hundred thousand acres Matched her hundred thousand pounds. She had loved a low-born singer Who had risen as a " star," He had strummed his way to conquest With the zither and guitar. They had met at social functions, Where the " lion " did perform ; He was handsome as Apollo, So he took her heart by storm. Ere the thing grew to a scandal With that graceful, gushing girl, She became a blushing Countess — For Amontillado's Earl Staked his acres on her honour. Plumed himself upon his win ; Neither knew the other's secret, Neither dreamed of hidden sin. A SOCIAL CONTRAST. 63 EAST. Billy Buttons was a coster, Somewhere out Whitechapel waj', Daily going round with " sundries " In a wondrous "one 'oss shay." Billy wanted much to " knock 'em " Round about the Mile End Road ; ' Heart-disease " he had contracted. But he gloried in love's load. Martha Dimple had infected Him with this love-sickness sore. He had driven her to Hampstead And the Welsh Harp o'er and o'er. On Bank Holiday he blustered, " Comin' through the (Peckham) Rye " — " Martha Dimple, dear, Go' bli' me ! If yer won't 'ave me I '11 die." What a blank the big world would be Without Billy, Martha knew ; She had been his faithful " dona," "As Mrs. Buttons I '11 be true,' She thought, as back on Billy's barrow. They drove home from Peckham Rye, She puckered up her lips, and whispered, " Billy, dear, suppose we try ? " 64 A SOCIAL CONTRAST. Billy bought the ring at Bennett's — Just to patronise " Sir John " — Martha, in war-paint and feathers, Went to try the circlet on. Spitalfields supplied the trousseau. Petticoat Lane the wedding suit, Big pearl buttons starred the breeches ; And a fiddle and a flute Played the Wedding March in Shoreditch, And of costers came a crowd, Just to see their " pal " spliced squarely^ And " Mrs. Buttons " looked as proud As Amontillado's Countess, Though her hat was rather " tall," And its plume of ostrich feathers Was the envy of them all. WEST. (A Year, or so, Later.) All the air was rife with scandal ; Earl Amontillado swears That he caught his wife descending Signor Cymbal's private stairs. A SOCIAL CONTRAST. 65 And the frail and fickle Countess Says, his club, and cards, and wine Divide his blas^ lordship's leisure With a danseuse most divine. EAST. Out Whitechapel way a coster Spreads a big baptismal feast, Mrs. Buttons and her first-bom Are the pride of Shoreditch East. And that bouncing baby Buttons Crows and chuckles in his glee, As the doting father dandles " Number One " upon his knee. FINIS. A sensation in the Law Courts Parts my lord and lady fair, In an action undefended By a Countess debonair. » * * * In a Shoreditch court a coster. Tossing baby in his arms, Says, " I 'se glad I wed thee, Martha, 'Ere 's the image o' thy charms ! " E *5 APRIL THOUGHTS. Hail! mild-eyed April, with your vernal robe Fresh-painted by the hand of One divine — Who breathes the breath of life upon our globe. And beauty wakes, and thrills this soul of mine. Poor hungry soul, with longings wild and vain — Poor human heart that seeks an earthly love — Is not content with all Spring brings again, And has not faith to rest its hopes above. Yet God's best gift to man, some sages say, Is Woman, perfect as when "nobly planned " She stood by Adam — in old Eden's day — When Nature reigned luxuriant in the land. 6« APRIL THOUGHTS. 67 And now that Art has added to her charms. And artifice abets her every way. Where is the stoic feels not fond alarms ? For surely this is Woman's golden day. And Man, who flutters round the fatal flame Like April fool, or moth with crippled wing. Delights to bask within those beams the same. As though Life's garden knew no time but Spring. MAY. God's sunshine floods the city, From azure skies o'erhead ; The bitter winds are banished, The cold grey days have fled. The whole world seems rejoicing At the first kiss of May, • She comes with smiling features- Like schoolgirl out at play. The fragrance of the hawthorns Steals to the city's heart ; The parks are gay with tulips, Like glowing lips apart And radiant English beauty Flocks round about the " Row " Like birds of brilliant plumage, The Mayfair maidens glow. 63 MAY. 69 Brunette and blonde seem striving To rival summer flowers, And rainbow sunshades shimmer Beneath the leafy bowers. A snow of apple blossom Drifts down the garden walks ; Green grows the smiling country, Verdant with springing stalks. If God first " made the country," And then " man made the town," The same sky bends above them, And yet we fret and frown. Each spring gives birth to summer, Warm with May's perfumed air, Each year brings golden harvests, God's smile is everywhere. A LONDON JUNE. " The laughter of a London June." — Lord Houghton. ' T IS June in London — roses are aglow In park and pleasaunce, and the window- sills Are brilliant with blossoms — while below A human tide gay Piccadilly fills. Like coloured lamps, amid their lustrous leaves, The rhododendron blooms are all aflame ; And what a web of colour Fashion weaves ! One wonders whence the rainbow-garments came. Belgravian belles, like butterflies, are out — Decked in gay plumage, bright as birds on wing — And round the " Row " such figures flit about As might entrance the gaze of Eastern King. A LONDON JUNE. 71 The azure of the skies — the soft June nights — Are rivalled by the eyes of English maids, In whose clear depths the poet-soul delights, When they light up the dusk of summer shades. Happy the land where lovely forms like these Brighten the beauty of a London June ; Happy the land which breeds the men one sees. In all the glory of their manhood's noon. Happy the land where West-end women shine Like stars, amid their satellites, who throng To render gallant homage at a shrine — Where love and laughter life's best hours prolong. Happy the city which can boast a scene Where courtly grace and chivalry remain ; Happy the subjects of a noble Queen, Whose brightest crown is an untarnished reign. Hail ! Royal Lady, o'er whose boundless land The sun is somewhere always at its noon. Let us remember there are those at hand. Who know no laughter in a London June. AT CHURCH PARADE. Far as the eye can reach, they gleam The glowing colours through the glade. One wonders whether 't js a dream, Or mere effect of light and shatle. The summer sunlight, streaming through The branches of ancestral trees, Glints on the tints of every hue, And ribbons flutter in the breeze. Ah, human hearts are fluttering too ! Beneath the silken blouses there ; Some may be false, and some be true, But faces flit by passing fair. And some, with downcast eyes demure. Prayer-book in hand, may go to pray ; Whilst others, though among the pure, Are, like their dresses, light and gay. "And some, with downcast eyes demure, Prayer-book, in hand, may go to pray ; Whilst others, though among the pure, Are, like their dresses, light and gay." (See '* At Chl'rch Parade," page ^2.) Drawn hy F. Victor Poole. AT CHURCH PARADE. 73 Ah ! well, be merry while you can, And quaff the nectar while you may ; Love waits not on the maid or man Who lets life's roses fade away. Give me the maid who says her prayers Because it is the proper thing, Yet loves the little sidelong stares Her grace and beauty always bring. Ah ! life would be a sorry show If lived in cool sequestered shades (Where rainbow colours never glow), Deserted by these dainty maids. The Hyde Park houris, after all, Are birds of Paradise below ; And ere the red rose-petals fall. Come, take a turn round Rotten Row ! MIDSUMMER ROSES. (Another Meditation at "Church Parade" IN Hyde Park.) A SCENT of summer roses in the air, A languorous softness in the balmy breeze, Gay groups of women, more than "passing fair," Who flit like wood-nymphs thro' the leafy trees. A web of colour passing through the Park, The thin pretence known as " Prayer-book . Parade," To seem demure, devout — Heaven save the mark! The coquette robed as a religious maid. These are the shams Society assumes Whene'er it puts its " Sunday manners " on ; While fashion seeks to rival summer-blooms When folly to the full extreme has gone. MIDSUMMER ROSES. 75 So flash the " butterflies " through drive and " Row," So shine fair sinners in the " Lady's Mile " ; So bright eyes gleam with most unholy glow, Where woman wears her most bewitching smile. Yet fair as summer roses are the maids As yet unsoiled by contact with the world Who scarcely dream of pitfalls, or of shades. Their budding beauty yet but half unfurled. Midsummer roses scatter sweetness round. But "waste their sweetness on the desert air"; Few contrite hearts among the crowd are found, Few heed the precepts of the books they bear. In outward signs, discreet, devout, demure. In inward g^ace how lacking none may know ; But whether saintly, sinful, soiled, or pure. Our roses make a splendid Sunday show. JUNE AND JUNO. It is the month of roses ; queenly June Has burst at length upon the sunlit scene, And beating hearts throb to the self-same tune As when Sir Launcelot sought his stately queen. The tulips in the parks have died with Spring, But there are two lips which I know full well Will pout for pressing, where soft white arms cling, And milk-white bosoms in the warm eves swell. The year's first fragile blossoms all are dead, The faded hyacinths have spent their sweets. But summer loveliness abroad is shed. And bright eyes glow when night with morning meets. 7« JUNE AND JUNO. 77 For June is like to glorious womanhood, And stately Junos hold high revel now ; While full lips parting, like the opening bud, Contrast their crimson with each snow- white brow. The summer roses which the sun unfurls, Fed with the fervid kisses of the June, Can scarcely rival our fair English girls, Whose hearts play truant 'neath the fickle moon. Each drooping head some manly shoulder finds. Each swelling bosom some responsive heart, And wooings speed like summer's scented winds. For passion is of life itself a part. Ah ! summer roses, rifled all too soon ! While summer nights are all too short for love; So make the most of life while it is June, Sip Juno's nectar — food for gods above. A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM. Your raven hair was like the night ; The tender star-shine in your eyes Was as some soft and lustrous light Shed from the orbs of Southern skies. Your eyebrows arched, a dainty pair, So perfect in their rainbow sweep ; Your lashes hid the lovelight's lair — But only when you were asleep. A Goddess Beautiful by day, A sculptor's model in repose ; I always feared you 'd fly away Before mine arms could press you close. And yet you were a woman, warm With all the passion of your race, Of perfect mould and fairest form, And something of a siren's grace. 78 A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM. 79 I met you in midsummer days Where rhododendron blossoms glow — Where charming women meet the gaze, And throng the Park by Rotten Row. I saw you mounted like a queen, (I mean, of course, a queen of Love) With seat superb and perfect mien. Your habit fitting like a glove. I envied e'en your prancing steed, Caressed by hand so lily-white ; And then — ah ! 't was a shock indeed — I saw a circlet shining bright. Alas ! it was your wedding ring ; You flew to other arms than mine ; My mad midsummer dream took wing, And left in peace a wifely shrine. A ROSE IN JUNE. June has discrowned that blushing maiden, May, And placed the chaplet on her queenly head, While flowers are scattered all along her way, And all her charms are in the sun outspread. So, like a nymph, beside the sea she stands. While amorous winds play with her robe unbound. And ripple all her tresses' golden strands, And where she treads becomes enchanted ground ; For June and perfect woman are as twins, Dowered with the love of loves in summer- tide. When passion in the human heart begins To reach its flood, then slowly to subside. Alas ! alas ! that passion dies so soon. And love itself fades like a rose in June. WOMANHOOD. June is the type of glowing womanhood, Wooing warm kisses with a rosebud mouth. When Love's sweet summer in its fullest flood Has all the warmth and passion of the South. June, with the bluest sky above us .spread, And woman with that heaven in her eyes — June with the golden blossoms overhead : Yet woman's hair with all their splendour vies. June's waxen petals mingle red and white. And woman blends them in each damask cheek ; While each midsummer day and lang'rous night Disclose fresh charms to lovers, who may seek To find in womanhood a type of June — Alas ! that love and roses fade so soon. A BALLAD OF DERBY DAY. Hurrah ! hurrah for a gallant steed. And hurrah for the Derby Day ! Hurrah ! for the horse that gains the lead And bears the " blue riband " away. Hurrah ! hurrah for our English sports ! That keep old England young ; Better than the pomp of camps and courts, And are worthy a wreath of song. The heart of England throbs on the course ; And the breeze of our English downs. With the flying visions of man and horse, Are better than the smoke of towns. And the sights and sounds along the road, At our national carnival, Are quite as worthy a stirring ode As Olympian festival. The duke drives down with his four-in-hand, And my lord with his team of bays ; Even the tramps are a jovial band As they trudge down the dusty ways. A BALLAD OF DERBY DAY. 83 The country yeoman trots out his nag, And the coster his patient ass. As proud of his own Whitechapel "drag" As of his buttons and his lass. Princes of the Royal line are there, And fair women, as chaste as snow ; While others less pure may look as fair, And are ranged in the ranks below. The air is full of a faint perfume From the flowers on fragrant breasts. And gay gowns look like parterres of bloom As the gaze on a picture rests. Then a roar of voices rends the air. At the cries of " They 're off ! " " They go ! " And thousands of beating hearts are there, While there 's a moment's lull below. For a nation's fate might be the stake — Then hundreds grow grave or gay. Alas ! that so many souls should quake — But, hurrah for the Derby Day ! IN JULY. Old England's grass is green to-day. And blue is England's sky, And London laughs and still is gay, For it is warm July. 'T is true the water carnival At Henley now is o'er, And past the floral festival, Where houseboats line the shore. The Harrow lads and Eton boys Have had their game at Lord's, But still there are a score of joys On London's level swards. The Park has yet a brilliant throng. And gay is Rotten Row, And all the " Lady's Mile " along Our English beauties go. 34 IN JULY. 85 There's "glorious Goodwood" yet to come, When Bisley is no more, And many a merry " kettledrum," Before the Season 's o'er. But far from all " the madding crowd," Together, you and I Will flee, like " love's light summer cloud " Along an azure sky. Together, you and I, my love, Will seek the southern shore. While it is yet July, my love, Ere summer dreams are o'er. AT HENLEY. A SUNNY gleam on the shining river. Where the green lawns slope to the rippling stream, And the willows bend and aspens quiver. While life passes like a midsummer dream. The house-boats lie in the shady reaches, Festooned with flowers of brilliant hue ; And lovers are whispering gallant speeches To which maids will listen, and maids niay rue. Fair English maidens, like Grecian graces. Straight limbed, and supple, and divinely- tall. Gaze on the scene with radiant faces. While warm July sunshine smiles over all. 'T is a butterflies' haunt, up-stream, at Henley, When the Regatta lends colour to the scene — To tempt the pencil of any Penley, Or inspire a poet where Pope has been. AT HENLEY. 87 The saucy hats, and coquettish jackets. While throbbing bosoms undulate beneath, Play havoc with hearts, like games at racquets. And Cupid's arrows may escape their sheath. No wonder that stalwart oarsmen often Struggle to win more than " Diamond Sculls," While the eyes of Beauty gleam and soften, And Love in 2^ pair-oar so often pulls. A ROMANCE OF THE RIVER. Where the willows bend to embrace the river, And the terraced lawn slopes to the stream ; Where the tender tremulous aspens quiver, And life seems like an idyllic dream ; It was there, when summer was ripe and golden, I met a maiden so fair of face. And told her a tale that is trite and olden, And yet Time lends it an added grace. Then we rowed away up the shining river To a nook where water-lilies grow, And I saw her beautiful eyelids quiver, And her hazel eyes more deeply glow With a light that is only known to lovers, And is never seen on sea or land. But which beams forth best when the heart discovers Soul answers soul, and can understand. 88 A ROMANCE OF THE RIVER. 89 There was scarce a ripple upon the water, The placid bosom of Father Thames Heaved gently as the breast of Beauty's daughter, With twin waves nestling beneath their gems. And with languorous sighs the summer breezes Responded to those breathed in the boat, Drifting idly, just as the current pleases, When oars are lifted in nooks remote. So we drifted down to the sheltered shallows When sundown came and the twilight fell ; We were only seen by the circling swallows. As they skimmed the stream they knew so well. Then the moon rose over the silent highway. Gilding our path on the water's face, Ere we homeward turned through a shady byeway, And reached the familiar trysting-place. And now that we row in one boat for ever, Whate'er the weather, the wind, or tide. Our romance of the river, methinks, will never Fade from our hearts until Time divide. 90 A ROMANCE OF THE RIVER. Old Father Thames is a bounteous giver, He keeps the secrets of old and young, And shelters love-scenes like a noble river, But, better than all, he holds his tongue. STANZAS. Shimmer on the summer sea, Azure violets on the lea, Lilies on the sleeping lake, Roses blushing, half awake, Coral phloxes in parterres. Wind-blown melodies and airs ; All these find, it seems to me. Their similitude in thee. Golden shimmer is thine hair, Violets in thine eyes have lair, Lilies cannot pale thy brow, Roses blush thy cheek, I trow. Coral phloxes are thy lips, Cupid there the honey sips, Nature's melodies rejoice. Commingling in thy low sweet voice. THE FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOWS. Our Society swallows are winging Their way to the wave-beaten shore ; Or go where the blithe birds are singing An anthem to Nature once more. They are fleeing from town, are these swallows. To moorland, and mountain, and sea : And " London is empty," it follows. Or left to five millions and me. For a time all these birds of a feather Wheeled round the gay Park and the " Row," Or circled and fluttered together At every Society show. At Ascot and Sandown they gambled. And then, in the Sunday Parade, Round sculptured Achilles they rambled. With Prayer-Books, so saintly and staid. They flirted and feasted and fSted With lovers and friends by the score, Until with the Season they 're sated. And glad now the carnival 's o'er. 92 THE FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOWS. 93 And some of the fair maids were married, With presents of rubies and pearls, And some through the Season have tarried, And still they are bachelor girls. They go in pursuit of fresh pleasure — These butterflies fresh from the West ; They drink of Life's wine without measure. Or look upon life as a jest. They migrate from mansion to villa, Though glad when the Season is o'er ; They fly from Charybdis to Scylla — And always seem longing for more. A BALLAD UP TO DATE. The blinds veil the windows in proud Piccadilly, The mansions are gloomy in silent Mayfair, We 're now in the midst of the season termed "silly," And those who are town- bound are deep in despair. For summer is fleeting, while languid and weary We linger in London, yet sigh to be free, With little to write about, charming or cheery, For Vanity Fair has ebbed towards the sea. The clubs are in chaos — the dulness provoking, The parks are as dull as the drives or the " Row," A man cannot always find solace in smoking When poker or baccarat waxes so " slow." 94 A BALLAD UP TO DATE. 95 Her Majesty's flown to the Highlands — Balmoral Claims the Royal recluse at this time of year; The Prince flies to Homburg, the town's growing moral, The gossips are gone and the West-End is clear. The flood-tide of scandal has ebbed, for vacation Has drawn down the curtain on dramas of life Played out at the Law Courts ; the latest sensation Being merely the murders which always are rife. With Henley and Goodwood the season was over, The Hurlingham coaches roll westward no more. Our sportsmen are busy with partridge and plover. Our butterfly belles sun themselves on the shore. 96 A BALLAD UP TO DATE. So London is empty — save for five millions Of poor plodding mortals left toiling in town, Who own neither coaches nor flaunting postillions. But ne'er let the clockwork of commerce run down. Let "the ten thousand" go and chase the nymph Pleasure ; Fashion and Folly have wings like the wind. The toilers alone make the most of their leisure, And the same heaven shines o'er those left behind. A SEA-SONABLE SONG. We parted by the summer sea, Vain is regret ; A summer's love I gave to thee ; Remembered yet. Remembered 'cause 't was passing sweet. And thou and I World-wandering had chanced to meet, To dream and sigh. A something in the summer air (A dreamy glow) Made dreaming most delicious there (More fair than now). The wailing of the waves that beat Their lone life out Made sighing dangerously sweet Beyond a doubt 98 A SEA-SONABLE SONG. And so the summer days ran down ; And sun and moon Deemed it were pity there to frown When fate would soon. Debutante at a " Drawing-room " 'Mid many fair (Your eyes lit e'en the palace gloom), The fairest there. Belle of the season, when in town — The Park and " Row," When to the seaside you went down, Lost all their glow. I had been something of a churl ; But, looking back, I sometimes think thy smiles, my girl, Have cleared my track. The promenade grew very drear, Light left the sea ; A charming presence left the pier — All went with thee. A SEA-SONABLE SONG. 99 You journeyed ejist, I journey west — Fate wills it so ; You '11 mate into another nest — 'T is all I know. If ties, of lofty station bom, Set us apart ; I, too, can laugh the world to scorn, With callous heart For you will marry, where you list, For love — of gold ; And I — well ! I shall still exist, Live — as of old. Yet would not meet those eyes again. Lest I should prove A victim to the same sweet pain — How weak is love ! BENEATH A SUNSHADE. The day was delicious and dreamy, The sea was a mirror of blue, A vision of lace, soft and creamy, I saw 'neath a shade of 6cru. A face, yea ! the fairest of faces, A waist that was tempting and neat^ In one of the loneliest places Where a man and a maiden may meet. 'T was summer again, in September, No soul was in sight on the shore ; That crimson sunshade, pray remember ! Screened one I had sought for before, We met in the whirl of the season When watched by those envious eyes, Where Love has no chance against Reason, And must hunger on glances and sighs. But on the sea-shore in September, When light is on sea and on land. And screened by a sunshade, remember, There 's a chance — to sit hand in hand, BENEATH A SUNSHADE. loi To kiss the red lips so inviting. To encircle a waist with an arm — One cannot put half into writing For fear of destroying the charm. When blue eyes are love-lit and longing, And cheeks, 'neath the shade of ecru, Grow rosy, oh ! who would be wronging The maid that is tender and true ? And when, in the warmth of September, She makes room for two 'neath the shade. Ah ! who would not quickly remember That God made the man for the maid ? Part II. AND OTHER POEMS. " Ah ! here is my lady's powder-puff Left carelessly on the shelf, Where, if his fortune be not enough, She will leave my lord himself," (See "Mv Laij\'s Vo\\iniR-]:*iMv," /ui^e 105.) MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF. My lady went to the ball last night. To a Christmas carnival, And they say — who saw that wondrous sight- She was the belle of the ball. Gems sparkled like dewdrops in her hair. The pearls flushed pink on her bosom bare. For Lady Annette is passing fair, I know she eclipsed them all. I stood aside as she swept downstairs — This beautiful English girl. With her stately step, and well-bred airs. And I saw her red lips curl In proud disdain of her lover's hand. My lord drew back — he could understand. My lady's look can her slaves command. The Duke, the Marquis, or Earl. io6 MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF. Ah ! here is my lady's powder-puff Left carelessly on the shelf, Where, if his fortune be not enough. She will leave my lord himself ; But when he gazes into her eyes. In their violet depths love's secret lies. And, 't is not a matter for surprise. He would sell his soul for pelf. Let me try my lady's powder-puff. To stipple my darker face ! But I think my lord a precious muff, To enter a hopeless race. If he could know what a housemaid knows. Who sees the sham of " society " shows, He 'd turn up his aristocratic nose, And seek for a footman's place, To hear the talk of the servants' hall. And barter his finest gem To possess one secret, more than all. Which is still unknown to them. And all who bow at my lady's shrine, And deem her a goddess, half divine, If they only knew this tale of mine It would dim her diadem. MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF. 107 I play with my lady's powder-puff, But it mocks a skin like mine ; I smile at the silly scented stuff, And dream of the land of wine ; I think of the skies of southern France, Where the sun sheds such an am'rous glance. And the Gascon men teach maids to dance Neath the myrtle and the vine. Born on the banks of the blue Garonne (For I am a Gascon maid), M}' cheeks were kissed by the southern sun. Which gave them their olive shade. Although my lady her maids may scorn. She shall some day know I 'm nobly born, My ancestors fleurs de lis have worn, And fought with the Old Brigade. This pretty plaything I '11 cast aside. It is not for cheeks like mine, Which flush with a glow of Gascon pride As I think of my lady fine, With violet eyes and her cheeks aglow, Like rosebuds sprinkled with scented snow, And gleaming gems on her breast below, As she passed the portals wide. io8 MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF. What a tale this powder-puff could tell If the foolish thing could speak ! How the trace of tears it did dispel, Or flush of the burning cheek. My lord and his love had words last night, She fled this ante-room in affright, For the duke had called to claim his right, And a rival peer to seek. She little knows that Lord Claude sought me As a simple Gascon maid, And found me guileless and fancy-free. To be by his vows betrayed. I think of that night when the moonlight shone (As pure as I) on the blue Garonne, And how, like a moonbeam, he was gone, When for bridal I arrayed. 'T is English " sport " in a foreign land To vow by a maiden's eyes, And proffer a fickle Saxon's hand When a woman's love relies On the " soul of honour " a lover swears 'T is his to offer, and unawares The maiden yields to his passion-prayers. And then the deceiver flies. MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF. 109 Lord Claude may forget his Gascon maid. But I 've tracked the trifler here ; When Lady Annette has played her part The " housemaid " will straight appear. To-night I know he 's to learn his fate, For I overheard their tete-d-tete When they came back from the Christmas y?^^, And methinks my course is clear. To him I was but a " powder-puff," A plaything, like perfumed chalk, He told me I was pretty enough To adorn the highest walk. But a Gascon girl in housemaid's guise. With a wounded heart, can use her eyes, And shock my lord with a sharp surprise. His little plot I will baulk. This morning I will prepare the room For the part I mean to play. And, as I 'm still a maid of the broom. Put this powder-puff away. I '11 secrete myself behind this screen To-night as a witness to the scene, Then slip the astonished pair between ; You may guess what I shall say. no MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF. I '11 tell my lord, if he likes, much more (But he '11 scarcely stay to hear). How he 's only one of perhaps a score Who have held my lady dear. The Marquis who meets her in the " Row," When the rhododendron blossoms glow. From this same room has been seen to go Half-a-dozen times this year. But I know well that the widowed Duke, Who, alas ! is far from young, Has been very nearly " brought to book " — But I 'm paid to hold my tongue. And the Duke comes only when his mind To sweet society is inclined ; Yet a wedding is quite close behind, Or Lady Annette is wrong. For she tells her French maid secrets too, And Clairette, of course, tells me ; So my handsome Claude may cease to woo- Yet she loves him I can see. And that is why I hate the pair. Not because my lady is so fair. And [ ? Ah ! well, I have ceased to care ; From the scene I long to flee. MY LADY'S POWDER-PUFF. iii So 1 'II go back to my Gascon land, And marry some foolish hind ; While my lady gives the Duke her hand, I shall leave my heart behind. Ah, Lady Annette, with your hair of gold, You English maidens are proud and cold, Too often your beauty is bought and sold ; And love is seldom blind. THE BIRTH OF THE FAN. She was the beautiful Rau Si, Child of a Chinese mandarin, And the lovelight lurked in each bright dark eye, But to unmask it were a sin ; So whenever a gallant bold drew nigh Those eyes by curtains were screened within. But Rau Si was a languorous love. Who sighed for a lover behind her veil. And prayed to the pitying gods above For someone to whisper that old, old tale Which the birds re-echo in every grove, And the Corins repeat in every dale. The love-gods listened to the maiden's prayer, It softened their hearts of wood or stone ; And so, one night, she descended the stair, And stole to the Carnival all alone ; And that stern old mandarin's daughter fair At the Feast of Lantern the rest outshone. THE BIRTH OF THE FAN. 113 Her form was supple, with a sibyl's grace, Her eyes gleamed with most unholy fire ; But the orthodox mask screened such a face As would make a stoic glow with desire, Like e'en the warmth of that Carnival place Which made the closely - masked maids perspire. Pretty Rau Si — half-stifled — removed Her mask, and sinned against Chinese law. For all the gallants who that maiden loved Were bewitched by the beauty which they saw. And all the Court ladies the act approved, Although at first they looked on in awe. Then the masks were taken from every face. And the maids fluttered them to and fro With a fan-like motion and perfect grace, Or held them their glowing eyes below ; And in that movement we can surely trace The birth of the fan long, long ago. THE MAN FROM MARS. " I SLID to earth on a sunbeam bright, And passing the minor stars, On this quaint old globe I did alight. For I am the Man from Mars. I want to see how this strange world wags. And know what its folks are at, In the vales below the mountain crags, We survey by heliostat." He was coolly walking down the Strand — Like a few of its early birds At daybreak — this stranger in our land, Who uttered those very words, And by the light of his restless eyes. Which glistened like little stars, I knew I had met, with some surprise, A merry old Man from Mars. Some seven feet high, with giant strides He strode with a look of scorn. And I sidled up on his right-hand side, And asked him where he was born. THE MAN FROM MARS. 115 He answered back in that Simian tongue, The wicked old monkeys talk, " To the planet Mars, sir, I belong. Although on the earth I walk." I looked at his figure picturesque Of Mephistophelian style, As though he had strayed from Strand burlesque. While a most sardonic smile Lit up his rubicund countenance, As I begged an interview ;. And he said, " I can read you at a glance, And I '11 tell you what we '11 do. " We '11 just turn into the Grand Hotel— A pigmy beside the bars Of those in the city where I dwell. In that grand old globe of Mars." I said, " You surely don't drink there ! " He answered, " Don't be a fool. For you, my friend, may thank your stars You are on a globe so cool. " Our trees are as red as the purple beech. Our women have bright black eyes ; They are soft and sweet, and free of speech ! " I glanced at him with surprise. ii6 THE MAN FROM MARS. " Why, have you women in Mars ? " I said, Then he looked at me with scorn — " Young man, are you quite right in your head. Or where on earth were you born ? " Think how on Mars we should get along Unless we had women there ; They are tall and supple, and straight and strong, And, besides, they are wondrous fair. Not being Eve's daughters, they know no ban. And may do just as they please ; They marry, or love their favourite man, And dread no divorce decrees." " Have you no Monarchy up in Mars ? No society scandals there? No Parliament that all progress bars ? " I asked, with a puzzled air. That merry old Man from Mars laughed out, And replied, " Your world is blind. Fray put such old ideas to rout — You 're a thousand years behind. " Old Mars is a free Republic vast. Where we speak a common tongue. With the same old laws from a buried past Which distinguish right from wrong, THE MAN FROM MARS. 117 Administered by the commonweal, And we have no rates to pay ; We act as we like, or think, or feel Inclined — in a proper way. " We have superseded electric light By focussed rays from the sun. We can scatter fog and brighten night ; And our trains and steamers run By irresistible motive power. From the same great source of heat ; We have drives and boulevards in flower. Instead of your dingy street. " I say you 're a thousand years behind. And I love Mars more and more ; Your liquor is not much to my mind — But drink up, and have one more ! " So another beaker we two did quaff. Oh, merry old Man from Mars ! He made me sigh, and he made me laugh. Ere he sailed back through the stars. THE ANGEL AND THE SUN. There are angels, they say, in the land over yonder, Beyond the bright sun — and yet glowing in light ; And we mortals don't doubt it, but sometimes may wonder If angels below are not almost as bright. In the days of old masters, when pictures were painted By artists whose works are chef d'ceuvres of yore. And rare canvases glowed with subjects so sainted, Their angels were spoiled by the huge wings they wore. Your Rubens, Velasquez, Tintoretto, or Titian, Painted martyrs and saints all good in their way. But to angels on canvas, with backgrounds Elysian, We much prefer Earth's dimpled creatures of clay. ii8 THE ANGEL AND THE SUN. 119 Yet our fair earthly angels attach to their shoulders Costumes as though Cupid were robbed of his wings, But if our maidens would charm the hearts of beholders, Let them drop such pretensions to heavenly things. We'll dispense with the odour of sanctity round us (Let them stick to the odour of Eau-de- Cologne), And the flutter of wings, when the fairies have found us. We're only too ready their sweetness to own. Let the maids of Mayfair, or the nymphs near the ocean, Be sure we would have them remain as they are Without wings — lest they seek for celestial motion And leave us, earth-bound — without sun- shine or star. A LAY OF ST. VALENTINE. No fiery darts, no flaming hearts, That never need the winning ; No verse sublime, no maudlin rhyme. That is not worth the spinning. No ruddy wreath, no moonlit heath, No church with gaping portal ; No blissful doves, no fairy groves. By Cupid made immortal. Such idle dreams ! Such threadbare themes ! Such Cupids fat and rosy ! With useless wings, ephemeral things. Are nowadays deemed prosy. Not such as these, nor formed to please The proud, the gay, the selfish ; A simple braid — so deftly made, 'T would puzzle fingers elfish. This, on thy shrine, St. Valentine, Was laid by fairy fingers, Long, long ago ; but none may know What spell around it lingers. A LAY OF ST. VALENTINE. 121 But once, at least, at this love-feast, I inly seem to ask it Of that sweet face, whose very trace Seems with it, in its casket. It brings to view bright eyes of blue. And lips with laughter parted ; A beauteous breast, where Love might rest. Were I not broken-hearted. Another's bliss to feel her kiss. And joy in her caresses ; Then ask not where this lock of hair First left its sister-tresses. A HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 'T WAS on a bright Bank Holiday, At merry Whitsuntide, She met me, in her best array, And I looked on with pride, To think that girl, whose rounded grace Was matched by such a perfect face, Might perhaps become my bride. " Where shall we go ? " the siren said, " To make Whit-Monday gay ? " " To Kew," I answered, half afraid My purse might soon give way. I caught a glance of sweet surprise Shot at me from her glorious eyes, As she said, " Not to-day." I told her of the Welsh Harp, where The lakes of Hendon lie ; I even mentioned purest air Was found on Peckham Rye ; A HOLIDAY ROMANCE. 123 And then suggested Hampstead Heath — She looked at me her hat beneath, And — " winked the other eye." " I like the ' Star and Garter ' best, Where we can dine at will, For sometimes, as I lie at rest. The ' Lass of Richmond Hill ' Comes to me in the strains of song ; So let us go, dear — come along ! 'T is no use standing still." I mentioned Kingston, Hampton Court, Laburnums ! Bushey Park ! The tasselled chestnuts, and the sport The maze might make, the lark Of being lost — she would not hear. And " shabby " I would not appear, I made no more remark. We went to Richmond, boated, drove. And flirted, then we dined — Dined grandly, for the " star " of love Shone when we two had wined ; For while I called for " Bitter," plain. She asked the waiter for " Champagne " ! And then my star declined. 124 A HOLIDAY ROMANCE. The orb of Love paled, and went down ; My cash and watch were gone To square the bill — and back to town That maiden went alone. And this is why, at Whitsuntide, I neither flirt, nor row, nor ride. And this is how I lost my bride. Who wed some wealthier one. A MAY SONG. MAY-blossoms white, May-blossoms red, Mingling in fragrant cloud-plumes over- head — Here is the light of your loveliness shed : A shade and a cover For maiden and lover ; Known all the world over As a true type of Hope : for is no Under the May-blossoms May-blossoms white, May-blossoms red, How ye are to old heart-memories wed ! Oft have we someone 'neath your tracery led ; And there the old story. Through ages grown hoary. Paled even your glory, When told by a lover where bloom made a bed Under the May-blossoms. 126 A MAY SONG. May-blossoms white, May-blossoms red. On your first-fallen all lightly we'll tread. Soon, ah ! too soon ye lie withered and dead. But when you are over, The maid and her lover Will find other cover. The warm flame of love can be equally fed. Whether dead leaves, or ferns, or bloom makes a bed Under the May-blossoms. THE FAIRIES' REST. When the elfins of old danced in sweet sylvan valleys By moonlight, to music of murmuring streams, And poor mortals were startled at midnight by sallies Of wood-nymphs awakened from mid- summer dreams. Then the fairies were fragile, mysterious creatures, Who flirted with Puck, or shy Cupid, at will ; But our latter-day fairies have beautiful features Which are "made-up," sometimes, with infinite skill. In the Park, 'neath the trees, our graceful girls, gliding, Know exactly the curves that make perfect shapes. 128 THE FAIRIES' REST. In the Row — in their "tailor-made" habits — when riding, Their charms, unconcealed by those envious capes, Are the themes of bystanders, who lounge o'er the railings And frankly discuss the fine maids of May- fair ; And we freely forgive all such feminine failings As calling in Art to assist Nature there. Or even the toilettes decollete, at dinners. When they doff furs and mantles, and straightway sit down In robes which seem made to make stoics turn sinners. And prudish and passionless dowagers frown. 'T is the same at the opera — thinly-draped " fairies," Who flutter round gaily in wild pas-de-deux. Are scarcely so gossamer-clad as De Vere is. In diamonds and laces, in box " Number two." THE FAIRIES' REST. 129 But far from the footlights, and free from inanity ; Away from the opera, and far from the stalls ; Away from the world's " fair," so truly termed "Vanity"; Away from the crush at Belgravian balls. It is better by far to see each English maiden Gracefully lounging in some sequestered nook. Where " The Fairies' Rest " forms a delectable Aidenn, And masculine spies are forbidden to look. BRUNETTE AND BLONDE. A TALE OF THE THAMES. They stood in a balcony by the river, Two English maidens so fair of face, That any gallant a lance might shiver To penetrate Cupid's hiding place ; And we saw their beautiful eyelids quiver As the boats passed by for the final race. Brunette and blonde, with the loveliest features Wreathed in sweet smiles as the boats went by. Never before had such bewitching creatures Glanced down on my college-chum and I, With the searching glances which, when they meet yours, Are enough to make you dream and sigh. Brunette and blonde — it was a picture striking — Lit up by the warm September sun ; 130 BRUNETTE AND BLONDE. 131 The raven-haired beauty much to my liking (Carruthers fancied the other one). We each vowed to row like a sturdy Viking, If only such prizes might be won. We leisurely pulled through the sunlit waters To make a start for the pair-oar race. But we both were dreaming of Beauty's daughters, And the possible chances of disgrace. And we believed we heard derisive laughters As our doughty rivals took their place. It was something more than a race for prizes, A Henley ribbon, or Diamond scull, It was for the honours a man devises When love lends strength to a steady pull — And the heart is full of those strange surmises Aroused by the Goddess Beautiful. We glanced at our rivals — two stalwart fellows — Victors in all but this final heat ; We expected to see the gleaming yellows Of their oars before us, until dead beat ; For we felt they might win each smile that mellows The path of conquest, but scorns defeat. 132 BRUNETTE AND BLONDE. They got the start, and they shot on before us, And were leading mostly all the way. And from the banks rang out a cheery chorus, While that balcony before us lay. And the eyes of Beauty were bending o'er us ; Handkerchiefs waved as we pulled away — But waved as it seemed to encourage others. Then we pulled away with might and main, We spurted, and challenged the stalwart brothers. Despite their efforts began to gain — And I said to my plucky chum, Carruthers, " One effort more — 't will not be in vain." We won : Ah ! the words have a double meaning By the aftermath we 've reaped since then ; For brunette and blonde from balcony leaning Had a little bet on the losing men. Their trust in their champions was over- weening. And we met simply as strangers, when Carruthers and I — introduced as winners — Found Thames-side beauties more charming still, BRUNETTE AND BLONDE. 133 At the best of all " Star and Garter " dinners, And toasted the girls from Richmond Hill. But we felt like a pair of guilty sinners — We knew their brothers we 'd beaten ill. It is over now, for we all are mated ; Our rivals elsewhere, and Father Thames (On the breast of which we're securely seated). When he gave us a couple of "Richmond Gems" In Carruthers and I new men created, And a joint house-boat his current stems. THE NUT-BROWN MAID. There she stands, the nut-brown maiden While the sun gleams on her hair, Where the branches droop, nut-laden, Just to kiss her features rare. Surely in the distant Aidenn Seraphim are not more fair. Yet there is that " touch of Nature," Which they say makes all akin, In each dainty dimpled feature, And a figure gods might win ; To admire that perfect creature Cannot be a scarlet sin. I have seen the ripe Sicilians, Dark senoras of Seville, And the crimson-lipped Castilians, Where they dance the Seguadille, Eastern houris in pavilions. Where a man might choose at will. THE NUT-BROWN MAID. 135 But give me an English maiden, Bom afar from gay Mayfair, Where the branches hang nut-laden, Round her radiant face and hair. From Gibraltar round to Aden There are few so chaste and rare. BESIDE THE SEA. At even when the sun was low, And o'er the water's face The sunset shed a golden glow. Which gave you added grace. We wandered far out, hand in hand, To watch the sea-waves swell, And like the billows on the sand, Your bosom rose and fell. You knew, as only woman knows, A fateful hour was nigh ; For soon the day waned to its close, And then the moon rose high. I pointed to the evening star. Light of some lonely land ; And said, however Fate might mar, My pole-star was at hand. 136 BESIDE THE SEA. 137 And then your own eyes caught the glow Which only lovelight brings To orbs that lit my sphere below — When love, with folded wings, Is nestling on a lily breast, Pure as the driven foam ; And so I soothed your soul's unrest, And vowed no more to roam. And this is all my story, told Beside the sighing sea, But long that August night will hold A memory for me. GOLDENHAIR. When the wind is in the west, When the bird is on its nest, I would nestle on your breast — Goldenhair. When the evening shadows fling Softer hues o'er everything, I can best your praises sing — Maiden fair. You were in September born. In the month of golden corn. Ere the year grows all forlorn — Goldenhair. So you still fresh charms disclose, Like the sweet, unfolding rose, Which from bud to blossom blows- Maiden fair. 138 GOLDENHAIR. 139 Father Time will scarce allow Shade to gather on your brow ; He would have it smooth as now — Goldenhair. Spring leaves you a leafy crown ; Summer, too, hands roses down ; Autumn woos in russet-brown — Maiden fair. Winter will not on you frown ; At your smile his wrath has flown ; Storms have o'er you harmless blown — Goldenhair. A poet, being but a man. Sings you, still, as poet can. But no fairer theme has than — Maiden fair. Nature, in well-ordered plan, Decked you as but Nature can. As if meant to queen her clan — Goldenhair. 140 GOLDENHAIR. And though you were country-born, Few Belgravian belles have worn Charms like yours, without some thorn- Maiden fair. There are none in proud Mayfair Who can with you quite compare, Though richer, and more debonair — Goldenhair. So, this simplest song of songs, I would sing in divers tongues ; All my praise to you belongs — Maiden fair. Soon the leaves will fall again ; After them comes wind and rain, But the same I would remain — Goldenhair. THE HEATHER BELLE. While the autumn still is golden, And the haut ton out of town ; Go ! and see the mist-wreathed morning Breaking over moor and down. Leave the blinds drawn in Belgravia, Chaos still in Clubland reigns ; But the tide of human traffic In the crowded town remains. Flee the haunt of human vampires, Flee the town-bred siren's snares ; Go and catch the golden glamour, Far from City courts and squares. Go ! with gun upon your shoulder, Faithful pointer by your side — Out upon the breezy moorland, You may win a bonnie bride. 141 142 THE HEATHER BELLE. Where the hare-bells, dew-besprinkled, Gleam like sapphires in the grass ; You may find a deeper azure In the eyes of some sweet lass. You may meet among the heather. Or at an old moorland inn, Some fair, artless, mountain maiden, And a " heather belle " may win. If she be a "child of Nature," Pure as her own mountain air. Keep her far from the exotics Bred in salons of Mayfair. AT MARGATE. MORNING. 'T WAS in the sea, at Margate, I saw that merry maid In bright-barred bathing costume, While ocean round her played. She gambolled like a mermaid, Her long hair floating down In dark-brown waves, like seaweed Kissed to a brighter brown. Her morning bath had brightened. And heightened all her charms, I envied Father Neptune, Who held her in his arms. The rude waves rose to kiss her, And clasp her rounded form, But still she stood defiant Like some sweet sprite of storm. 143 144 AT MARGATE. NOON. 'T was noon when next I saw her. Reclining on the sands, Like some divine Diana, Too fair for human hands. Her summer robes clung to her Like drapery to the form Of some superb Greek goddess. But she was breathing warm. Her upturned eyes of azure Sought mine — and then they fell On Zola's " La Debacle " ; Her bosom rose and fell Like twin waves of the ocean — Stirred by some wild unrest, I saw her blush as deeply As sunset in the West. NIGHT. 'T was night — again I saw her, Beneath a full-orbed moon ; The tide was low, its wavelets Seemed lisping love's own tune. AT MARGATE. 145 And tremulous and tender The words which broke the spell Of silence — and between us Love's torch was lit full well. So sped those hours at Margate, As towards the cliffs we turned, And 'neath their silent shadows Love's flame more brightly burned. We built a fairy castle, And Cupid was our guest, The moon looked down in sympathy, The stars can tell the rest. A STORY OF THE SEA. Only a stretch of golden sand, And a wide expanse of sea, A sunset halo on the land, And the sea-gulls winging free. Only a quiet old-world place Where fashion, folly, and pride. As yet had scarcely left a trace Or disturbed the quiet tide Of humdrum life upon the shore Of a lovely landlocked bay, Where fishing-smacks went skimming o'er. Or a trim yacht sometimes lay. Only a village on the cliff, With the wild waves far below, And on their crests a tiny skiff. With sail gleaming white as snow. 146 A STORY OF THE SEA. 147 Only a window open wide, With a maiden standing there, As the sun gleams on the ebbing tide, And lights on her golden hair. The maiden gazes out to sea And watches the dipping sail. The sun sets o'er the grassy lea — 'T is only a thrice-told tale, For one sails in the fragile boat Like Conrad from Corsair's Isle, And sings a love-song while afloat, ^And dreams of the maiden's smile. But as he clears the sheltered bay The wind freshens to a gale ; Her heart throbs as he drifts away, And he furls his tiny sail. * * * * The moon rose o'er the pathless deep, But the yacht was seen no more, The screaming sea-gulls o'er him sweep Whom the hungry waves rolled o'er. 148 A STORY OF THE SEA. Only a sad-eyed village girl Still wept on the shell-strewn shore ; He was heir to a belted earl, But came to her nevermore. There was a stately funeral When the sea gave up its dead, " Perhaps it was better after all," So the love-lorn maiden said. The " world " might roll its waves between A lowly maid and a peer ; But dreaming of " what might have been," She still sheds many a tear. "SET FAIR." "Set fair" was the weather, and calm was the ocean. Seaward the sunbeams made mirrors of gold; Our yacht, like a swan, had the laziest motion — Tranquilly, too, " the old story " I told. Her eyes, although blue as the heavens above me. Caught deeper light as she softly replied — And vowed through life's long voyage always to love me. " Set fair " is the weather still — dj/ her side. 149 BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. A SEPTEMBER STORY. Do you remember — where'er you are, On sea, or shore, or mount, or moor — How you beamed upon me, like a star. When you were rich and I was poor ? It was last September, by the sea. In such a quiet old-world place, When I deemed that you were fancy free ; I saw the angel in your face, And marvelled at your matchless grace. Ah ! do you not know, O maiden fair, A poet has observant eyes ? And I thought you radiant and rare. As Peri strayed from Paradise. I deemed you perfect and — so you were — At least, in figure and costume ; Your " society " cUbut caused a stir In many a Mayfair drawing-room. Moth-like, I fluttered to my doom. BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. 151 We flirted — nay, it was something more, So far as my part was concerned — All through September ; and by the shore, I thought Love's lesson we had learned, For never moonlight, upon the sea, Before shed such refulgent beams ; It was a vision of bliss to me That autumn month's delicious dreams — And now a fantasy it seems. Don't you remember, my Lady Claire ? It was the last night of the band ; The finale was a love-lorn air I thought your heart might understand (It was down at Broadstairs, by the way). We lingered on that wooden pier (Quaint relic of some historic day), I begged my story you would hear — The old tale, told year after year. I saw a tear trickle from your eyes, A star from brighter stars let fall, I saw a love-gleam of sweet surprise, Or p'p'aps 't was fancy — that was all. 152 BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. But methought your bosom rose and fell With something like a sob or sigh. Just as the sea-waves gently swell When scarce a trace of storm is nigh ; And then, at last, you made reply : "It cannot be ! Ah ! would it might — If only you were better known ! It must be so beautiful to write If for a laurel crown alone. But title or wealth, or fame, will sway The arbiters who rule my fate ; Perhaps there may come a brighter day ; But now the hour is growing late — Good-bye ! We 're at the garden gate." I pressed one warm kiss upon your lips, 'Y^\\'& first and last one, ere you fled ; I saw the lights of the distant ships. The round moon watching overhead ;. But gloom seemed spreading o'er sea and land, A cloud soon cut the moon in twain. The waves broke over the shadowed sand, Singing a requiem o'er again, For Love — by Love's own hand was slain. BY THE SAD SEA WAVES. 153 We met again in last season's whirl, I fought for Fame all winter through — I found you the same proud, peerless girl, While I — I had won a wreath or two. The September days are here again, A freak of Fortune has brought me gold, But the little bird Love may sing in vain — For, Lady Claire, my heart is cold: You may marry the Marquis old ! A FLIRTATION. Where are you, winsome maiden ? Where are you flirting now ? In some barque, pleasure-laden. With Cupid at the prow ? Where are you this September — On moor, or sea, or shore ? And do you still remember Where we two met before ? It was last year, at Dover, Before you left for France ; And, when I played the lover, You led me such a dance ; I thought you sweet and simple — A rare Arcadian maid ; Love lurked in every dimple — 'T was " love of fun," you said. I know we played at lovers, And I — I played the fool ; But when a man discovers The maid begins to cool, A FLIRTATION. 155 He flies to fan his passion By some less fickle flame ; If flirting be the fashion. Then two can play the game. I chafe in this dull city 'Neath sad September skies ; Would I could see some pity Shed from your wondrous eyes ! At last — here comes a letter : " Maude Grey is at Trouville " — Ah ! then, bound by no fetter, Dear girl, you 're flirting still. A BACHELOR GIRL. It was the seaside season. When maidens were at play ; And where the tall cliff screened them They gambolled in the bay. The summer-girls were sporting Amid the sun-kissed waves ; I envied Father Neptune, Who watched them from his caves. I envied even Ocean, That clasped in close embrace One rare and radiant maiden Of perfect form and face. I saw her somewhat later, Reclining on the sands ; Her golden tresses flowing In silken, shimmering strands. '56 A BACHELOR GIRL. 157 I envied e'en the novel That lay upon her lap, And longed my head to pillow Upon it for a nap. We met that night at dinner — Her bosom rose and fell Beneath a spray of roses, As soft twin-billows swell. I saw the star-like jewels On the heaven of her breast, And I longed to be the roses, There for one brief hour to rest. A SUMMER SONNET. Turmoil and traffic down the dusty street, Pale, careworn features in the dingy town, But in the country sun-kissed faces brown, A scent of hay and roses, faint and sweet, A song of gladness in the summer air, A glow of blossom on each garden bed, A mass of foliage, arching overhead ; A sun-flecked pathway gleaming here and there ; Music of children's laughter on the leas. And minstrel music in the woodland groves — Where the blithe birds are singing to their loves, And, far away, the murmur of the seas, A summer anthem rises to the sky — To Him alone who knows life's mystery. 15S A MEMORY. December days are dull and drear, December skies are dun, It is the midnight of the year — Its race is almost run. Sometimes athwart those angry skies Comes an auroral glow ; So once the glory of thine eyes Lit my dark path below. The earth is swept with snow or rain, The trees stand gaunt and bare. Yet dreams of summer days remain, And blossoms sweet and rare. So 'mid the dense December gloom A halo still remains Round one dear portrait in my room, And memory retains »59 i6o A MEMORY. Remembrance of the trysts of love, The pressure soft and warm, And ne'er an angel from above More fair in face and form. Too fair for earth — too pure for man, You vanished with the snow, And one new star in Heaven's span Looks down on me, I know. A DECEMBER SORROW. A Maiden's Lament. And is it true? And am I thus forgotten? Have all my day-dreams faded into this ? Are all earth's friendships insecure and rotten, But very fragments of a perfect bliss ? Forgotten ! in one sunny summer season ; Thus careless zephyrs waft away a song ; Remembered only when the heart's high treason Is p'r'aps transfigured in some fresher wrong. This earth has many glorious achievements, Its pageants glitter in the roll of years ; But, oh ! 't is full of partings and bereavements, Full of the pain and misery of tears. We build our hopes upon the fair to-morrows; Yet haunted by the phantom yesterdays — And seek a solace for our passing sorrows By finding precedents in human ways. A summer's love may bring a wintry sorrow, Pain that outliyeth but the falling leaf, To natures that vex not a brighter morrow With any shadow of a vanished grief 1 62 A DECEMBER SORROW. But they who live to labour for affection, Who in the solemn places of the heart Set up one idol peerless in perfection, Mourn livelong what was only human art. I do not seek to know my fairer rival, Nor wish to look upon his face again. And yet I am a prey to love's survival, And cannot crush a silent sense of pain. Yet, sitting in this sullen, sad December, A prey to memory, and a love apart, I will not seek to fan the dying ember Which lieth on the hearthstone of my heart. The hearthstone whence the glowing warmth has faded. For one who kindled, turned, and quenched the fire, Love's summer sun a wintry cloud has shaded. And summer day-dreams in the snow expire. So let him go — my lover, tri His graven image — once ( Is shattered now — and fal parted. But May has turned December in my heart. A REAL HERO. A Fireman's Story. 'T WAS Christmastide, and, far and wide, snow sparkled on the earth, And west or east the folks did feast, and song, and dance, and mirth Reigned round about, within, without the vast, o'ercrowded town. When suddenly went up a cry all jest or song to drown. A cry of " Fire ! " "A fearful fire" in some poor, squalid street, Where people rushed, and rowdies crushed with eager, reckless feet. Five minutes more, another roar of voices echo made, " Stand back ! stand back, there ! Clear the track ! Here comes the 'fire brigade ! " 163 1 64 A REAL HERO. All else outpaced, the engines raced like rockets through a storm, While red-tongued flame through windows came, and then a woman's form Was seen to swoon, ere, bright as noon, one brazen helmet blazed. " God help the woman — and the man ! " the people cried, amazed. The wild throng yield. " 'T is Widow Neild — my mother ! " cried a youth. As, darting through the men in blue, they saw he spoke the truth. " Through fire and water let me go," he said, " to save her life." " You '11 lose your own ; a man alone is fit for such a strife." " T feel a man" his answer ran, as, slipping through the force. The hero broke through fire and smoke, and, shrieking loud and hoarse, " Oh, mother dear, God help and hear, your boy is near at last ! " A ringing cheer he seemed to hear, his strength was failing fast. A REAL HERO. 165 One brazen helmet went before, the boy pressed close behind ; Through stairs on fire they rushed up higher a flame-girt room to find. "Is mother dead ? " the brave lad said. " She breathes," the man replied. " Then save her, sir, before I stir ; no matter if /died." The fireman turned. "The stairs are burned; there 's no escape," he said. " I can 't save two — it 's lur or you ; the woman 's almost dead. There's little hope except this rope; slide the hose if you can. A minute more all chance is o'er. You've more pluck than a man!' The fireman rushed, as fresh flames gushed, through broken window-frame With a woman's form ; of cheers a storm from anxious watchers came. "But where 's the ladf" Some voices add, " The young 'un lags behind ; See ! there he goes ! he 's clutched the hose, but he seems dazed or blind." 1 66 A REAL HERO. The lad was dazed, the hose was glazed, slippery and wet to grasp ; All tongues were tied to see him slide, and then unloose his clasp. But one and all rushed to break his fall ; then the youngster said, " Does mother live f My life I '11 give if I know she 's not dead." ***** 'T was visiting day St. Thomas's way. In a great London ward, All bruised and burnt, poor Jim Nield learnt his mother was with the Lord. " But don't fret, Jim," I said to him, " there 's work for lads like you ; When strong and well, you come and tell me what you wish to do." " When big enough such jobs to rough, I '11 be a. fireman, sir. That dreadful night, when flames blazed bright, they were so good to her. They 're real heroes, and one of those I '11 be when I 'm a man ; If brave to kill, it's braver still to save life when one can." A REAL HERO. 167 And now Jim Nield has found a field to suit the strong and brave. For he's enrolled a fireman bold — the first fresh lives to save. Brass-helmeted his handsome head, proud of his daring trade, A real hero his comrades know — pride of the whole brigade. A NEW YEAR'S RETROSPECT. Only a year ago ! — only a year ! Don't you remember it, Ellaline dear ? Don't you remember the marge of the pool — You with your skates loose, and I — like a fool- Down on my knees was re-buckling your straps, Each having met with the merest mishaps. Which happen to most of us when on the ice, We cannoned, _y