PS 
 
 3505 
 
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 SKETCHES IN VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARENCE CRANF, 
 
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SKETCHES IN VERSE, 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARENCE CRANE. 
 
 i^V^ OjOL f 
 
 
 

 COPYRIGHT, 
 BY CLARENCE CRANE, 1895" 
 
To 
 Miss Abhy Trafford. 
 
NOTE. — Some of the sketches of this collection were 
 contributed to the '''The New York Advertiser," 
 ''Bunker Hill Times" "Brooklyn Eagle" and 
 '^New York Clipper" Others appear now for the 
 first time. — C C. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 KINGDOM OF PREJUDICK. - - - - 7 
 
 THE OLD PLAY. 8 
 
 TALE OF A HUMMING BIRD'S NEST. 9 
 
 OUR GARRET. 11 
 
 GOLDEN ROD. 12 
 
 GREAT GRANDFATHER'S MATCH-BOX. - 13 
 
 A REALIZATION. - - - - - 14 
 
 THE BLACK SHEEP. - - - - 15 
 
 VIOLETS. 16 
 
 ABSENCE. - - - - - - 17 
 
 A GRAY BOAT. - 18 
 
 THE GRAND CIRCUIT. - - - - 20 
 
 OLD GLOBE THEATRE. - - - - 21 
 
 LONGINGS. 22 
 
 WHEN WE FOUR MEET AGAIN. - - - 23 
 
THE KINGDOM OF PRKJUDICB. 
 
 We scanned his insane escapades and peered 
 Beneath the frail veneer of confidence. 
 
 We bantered baseness but to view the vein, 
 Nor found one latent grain of reverence. 
 
 He is as vicious as Damaetas was ; 
 As flexible a fool as Pretty Pete. 
 
 His future^'s like to be the mildewed ghost 
 Of the sour yesterday of his career. 
 
THE OlyD PLAY. 
 
 We are pleased with the good old fashioned play^ 
 
 Where even the underling has his day ; 
 
 Where villiany fails, and prodigals find, 
 
 Far more tempting dinners than husks and rind. 
 
 Where Damozel Sorrow stares in amaze, 
 
 Perceiving that life has a few fair days : 
 
 Where the good survive and the evil die. 
 
 And devils slip on the peel of a lie. 
 
 Where Pharisees seek Samaritans' feet, 
 
 And friendship is fruitful and love concrete ; 
 
 Where all events are as they ought to be, 
 
 When Satan is under the Hero's knee. 
 
 Some reckon, that the good old fashioned play, 
 
 lyike "" Bric-a-brac I^yre," has had its day. 
 
 Old customs come, 'tho oft we say '^good-bye ;" 
 
 Old faults arise, and never choose to die : 
 
 Old skeletons of scandal still appear. 
 
 All things dilapidated are not dear. 
 
 Yet ever Fate, remindful of the past. 
 
 Returns us to some fair old love at last. 
 
TAIvK OF A HUMMING BIRD'S NKST. 
 
 Deep lined with down and cotton. 
 
 This baby nest you see, 
 Was once a little dwelling 
 
 Built in an old oak tree. 
 
 With moss and lichen mottled, 
 
 It seemed a knot of oak, 
 Half hid by grizzled branches, 
 
 A halcyon realm, remote. 
 
 Two cherished eggs it compassed. 
 
 Two perfect jewels white ; 
 And God, who loveth all things, 
 
 Bade Nature screen the sight. 
 
 But Nature left unfinished 
 The task, and strayed away ; 
 
 Then came an idle youngster, 
 Who climbed the tree in play. 
 
 Soon from a high position. 
 
 Quick eyed, the nest he viewed ; 
 
 O'er "Alps" of limbs he clambered 
 Aud wrought a pillage rude. 
 
Many the nests we fashion, 
 Bver with hopes bestow ; 
 Comes adversity's youngster 
 Laughing, and lays them low. 
 
 lO 
 
OUR GARRET. 
 
 We dwell in a den, dismantled and old ; 
 
 'Mid, debris of rubbish and cob-web mold. 
 Crazily raftered over- head, 
 
 An unswept floor and a ragged bed : 
 And a crater-like portal leading down 
 
 To the landlady^ who with poristic frown, 
 lyieth in wait, in her slovenly gown. 
 
 Her heart, we know, is as old and as cold 
 As the gusty garret filled with mold ; 
 
 And faith and pity in her are as dead 
 As the dust in the littered room o'erhead. 
 
 Doth the rose exposed to the winter^s blast. 
 Bloom more fair ? Doth its perfume last ? 
 
 Its petals wither, its odors depart. 
 When sold at auction in Poverty^s mart. 
 
 We of the attic, quaint but cold, 
 Cater to castles of rubbish and mold ; 
 
 Poverty^s power must pass away ; 
 Sunshine and summer shall come some day ; 
 
 And Hope's ancient anchor will hold us fast, 
 'Till garret and winter and want are past. 
 
 II 
 
GOLDKN ROD. 
 
 (to ADA BYRON COOMBS. ) 
 
 Golden flower and fairy rod, rising from the way- 
 side sod, 
 
 Rock and bow ye to the wind, wand of wood-nymph, 
 magic kind. 
 
 Yellow tassels nodding low, bend ye, swing ye to and 
 fro; 
 
 Ivight your burnished fringes fling, while the ze- 
 phyrs, wooing, sing. 
 
 Purest melod)^ that floats, vocalized in silvery notes ; 
 Slow in whispers die away, half unsung the Circean 
 lay. 
 
 Circling Time in fashion old garners all his floral 
 
 gold; 
 Glancing, spares thee to the last, till the Summer 
 
 sun has past. 
 
 When dreams of Spring, dearly cherished, iris-tinted, 
 
 all have perished. 
 And last Autumn winds pass, sighing. Golden Rod 
 
 is bare and dying. 
 
 12 
 
GREAT GRANDFATHER'S MATCH BOX. 
 
 Blase and battered, old brass case, 
 With hinges lacking oil of grace, 
 You conjure up an antique time, 
 Days of grandfather's father's prime. 
 Servitor ancient, seeking rest, 
 How many squibs have known thy breast ; 
 Transient guests to burn old papers, 
 To light fond pipes and bed-time tapers ? 
 Years ago you were gilded, no doubt. 
 Carried to soiree, ball and rout ; 
 But pristine joys must pass away, 
 Even as great grandfather's day : 
 And leave exposed old age and brass, 
 To show how generations pass. 
 Strange you appear to now-a-days^ eyes. 
 Yet though you boast too ample size 
 For matches of the present time, 
 I'll treasure you for " auld lang syne." 
 By laws ancestral, good and true, 
 Grandfather's father lives again in you. 
 
 13 
 
A REAIvIZATlON. 
 
 Yes, I know I am twenty to-morrow, 
 And I feign would forget the fact, 
 
 For I cannot but think with sorrow 
 That lost years never retract. 
 
 I've lived in a ''ramshackle" manner 
 
 In a land of delightful haze ; 
 Where activity's iron hammer 
 
 Disturbs not the idler's ways. 
 
 From fortune's fickle ocean 
 
 Barks have touched on this dreamy shore ; 
 But I slept under pleasure's potion 
 
 In sight of reality's door. 
 
 I called on a friend to borrow 
 
 A novel to while away time, 
 And she said : "You are twenty to-morrow;" 
 
 And I cannot get rid of the line. 
 
 Yes, I know I am twenty to-morrow, 
 
 Yet I feign would forget the fact 
 For I cannot but think with sorrow 
 
 That lost years never retract. 
 
 14 
 
THE BLACK SHEEP. 
 
 Forever he wanders, no one knows where ; 
 Still old Mother loves him, and love is prayer. 
 Still cherished by her his name doth lie, 
 A sunset of grief in memory "s sky. 
 Will winters and summers of gray and gold 
 Return the prodigal into the fold ? 
 Peacefully, dreamlessly, dear ones sleep 
 Under frail flowers that vigils keep ; 
 And only the wistful shepherdess old, 
 lyingers in love in the sorrowful fold. 
 Why must he tarry ^till she doth lie 
 Where frail regrets merely meet the eye ? 
 Why should he hesitate — why should he roain 
 When sweet forgiveness beckons him home ? 
 Where the dear heart, like the swinging door. 
 Bids him enter and wander no more. 
 
 15 
 
VIOLETS. 
 
 On the meadow's mossy margin. 
 Grow in clusters, white and blue, 
 
 Spring's fair promises of summer — 
 Violets dipped in saintly dew. 
 
 Close beside the little river, 
 
 Swollen by the April showers ; 
 
 Where the banks form fairy pillows, 
 Dwell the dainty little flowers. 
 
 Here the gentle maiden Chloris 
 Watches o'er in rapt delight, 
 
 All the babies of the meadow, 
 Violets blue and violets ^white. 
 
 Promises they are of summer. 
 Deeper than prophetic words, 
 
 Of the bursting of the blossoms ; 
 Of the advent of the birds. 
 
 lyowly flowers in the meadow ; 
 
 Violets white, and violets blue ; 
 Yet they stand as faithful pledges. 
 
 That the summer shall come true. 
 
 i6 
 
ABSENCE. 
 
 She is away; the thought is born of tears. 
 She is away; my heart is faint with fears. 
 Hope, Joy and Rest have fled to distant skies 
 And left lyove's lonely hours and broken ties. 
 There is a rain that comes at dead of night 
 And sobs upon the roof as if in fright ; 
 Seeming like some dead friend returned to stay 
 And mourn with me because — she is away. 
 She is away; is she unhappy, too ? 
 She is away; will Faith burn just as true ? 
 If she returns her kiss will banish pain ; 
 Till then my soul sobs, lonely, with the rain. 
 
 17 
 
A GRAY BOAT. 
 
 A gray old derelict she lay. 
 
 Beside the barren sea ; 
 And brokenly the evening breeze, 
 
 Whispered her tale to me. 
 
 Reposing with bow toward sunset, 
 
 With stern to rising seas ; 
 I scanned her melancholy state, 
 
 The rumors of disease. 
 
 Appearing like one forsaken 
 In second childhood's maze ; 
 
 Hearing in vain that old refrain, 
 " The light of other days." 
 
 Soon will the broken billows gnaw ; 
 
 Anon the slavish tide. 
 Garnish with moss the greedy cracks, 
 
 Hollow a grave, beside. 
 
 Peace to your spirit, gray old boat ! 
 
 Yet when the waves burn red, 
 You sorrow for the ocean, lost. 
 
 And hate your sandy bed. 
 
 i8 
 
Could I burden with empty hopes, 
 With wishes wise but vain ; 
 
 Banish all selfish retrospect, 
 Soon would I break thy chain. 
 
 Then ocean would vanquish the shore. 
 
 Sobbing in soft delight ; 
 And hushing thy sighs on his bosom, 
 
 Bear thee into the night. 
 
 19 
 
THE GRAND CIRCUIT. 
 
 Two rubies in a ring she gave and lisped, 
 
 ''Thus are our hearts in L^ove's sweet circlet 
 bound." 
 
 Two days agone, I met a man who said, 
 
 " That ring you wear I gave to her you love, 
 
 It was my wife's, she died a year ago." 
 I loved her not, so passed the gift to him. 
 
 20 
 
OI.D GI.OBK THEATRE, WASHINGTON, D. C. 
 
 Old playhouse ! with the rain discolored sills, 
 
 Decked with the fragments of the last show's bills. 
 
 As though a troupe of pickers of the rag 
 
 Had ornamented thee with tattered tag ; 
 
 Before the Civil War's disheveled din 
 
 Had cradled all the land in sanguine sin. 
 
 Thy red lights, each like Salamander's eye, 
 
 Did fascinate the aimless passer by. 
 
 Many an actor. Globe, who scorns you now, 
 
 Made from your boards his first professional bow. 
 
 Escaping time, fire, malice of the mob. 
 
 Thy timbers yet must feel destruction's prod. 
 
 But you are more than worthy of a verse — 
 
 A panegyric of your course rehearse. 
 
 Grace to your ghost, and might each leveled beam 
 
 Bum in Bohemian grate with friendly gleam. 
 
 21 
 
I.ONGINGS. 
 
 Longings are phantom sighs 
 
 That break from the sensitive soul ; 
 
 That tremor the burden that lies 
 On the heart like an infinite dole. 
 
 Thej'- are embers of hope, and glow 
 
 And die in a passing breath; 
 They are ashes we feign would throw 
 
 Into the river of Death. 
 
 They are faded blossoms discovered 
 
 ^Twixt the leaves of the heart's old tome; 
 
 In a drift of failures smothered. 
 They lie in their hopeless home. 
 
 But their incense oft doth arise 
 
 And troubles the sensitive soul ; 
 And tremors the burden that lies 
 On the heart like an infinite dole. 
 
 22 
 
WHEN WE FOUR MEET AGAIN. 
 
 We'll have a real nice time again 
 
 When I^arry stars a show, 
 When Bill scores South America, 
 
 And when we hear old Joe 
 Ever quoting, quoting Shakspeare 
 
 Between his cigarettes. 
 Well have a real nice time again. 
 
 Since gift-lead weights our nets. 
 
 Well have a real nice time once more 
 
 When floating isles that lie 
 Outlined in friendship's horoscope, 
 
 At even-tide draw nigh ; 
 When summers laid in lavender 
 
 Banquet at mem'ry's fa;aie ; 
 Well have a real nice time once more. 
 
 When sunlight soothes the rain. 
 
 If Shy lock gets us '''on the hip " 
 
 Our dreams will augur stars ; 
 We may not have a real nice time, 
 
 Our hopes may fill rose-jars, 
 Yet Buenos Ayres and the show, 
 
 And Enoch's novels, aye. 
 Will find kind critic in old Joe 
 
 Who never limned a lie. 
 
 23 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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