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VENTURES 
 
 IN 
 
 VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
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 BUFFALO 
 
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 Copyright, 1892 
 By Charles Shepard Parke 
 
 "1 , 
 
 ^H^Ai^ 
 
 PAULS PRINT 
 BUFFALO 
 
A SYLVAN CEREMONY 
 
 " Kneel," whispered the breeze. 
 
 On wistful knees 
 In the swaying grass I sank, 
 
 While, all around, 
 
 A soft choral sound 
 Swelled from bower and bank. 
 
 Two slender blows, 
 
 And I arose 
 Of sordid aims bereft ; 
 
 By the accolade 
 
 Of a green grassblade 
 Ennobled and enfeoffed. 
 
 Now am I lord 
 
 Of weald and sward, 
 Fellow to leaf and flower ! 
 
 Brook, bee, and bird 
 
 Have passed the word 
 That owns me from this hour ! 
 
APRIL FOOLING 
 
 "Whanne that April with his shoures 
 
 sote " — 
 O Chaucer, Chaucer, when those words 
 
 you wrote 
 You little dreamt that far across the sea 
 A new and broader Britain was to be. 
 Whose April, not content to "perce the 
 
 droughte 
 Of March" and drive the blust'ring fellow 
 
 out, 
 To summon the birds and buds, and cleanse 
 
 the way 
 Against the coming of his sister May, 
 Doth often backward reach, as now, and 
 
 seize 
 In sport the skirt of Winter as he flees. 
 Fling out the shred athwart the soft'ning 
 
 sky, 
 And almost make us doubt if Spring be 
 
 nigh ! 
 
A SPRING-DAY BILL OF FARE 
 
 BREAKFAST 
 
 A Sip of Morning Dew. 
 
 A Checkerberry or two. Young Leaves 
 
 with Honey Spread. 
 
 [Serve while the dawn is red.] 
 
 LUNCHEON 
 
 Violets from the Dell. 
 
 Watercress as well. White Ends of New - 
 
 pulled Grass. 
 
 Chips of Sassafras. 
 
 Dessert — A Sniff of that Breeze right 
 
 from the Orchard Trees. 
 
 Who after these craves dinner 
 Is a ffourmand and a sinner. 
 
OVERHEARD IN AUGUST 
 
 The song of Kissisqua, the brooklet, the 
 
 silver-toned babbler, 
 Rehearsing the gossip of rushes to broad 
 
 pebbly reaches, 
 Anon lightly telling of flower loves far in 
 
 the glen. 
 
 The song of the westerly breeze, full of 
 sweet meadow thoughts, 
 
 Orchard airs, garden fancies, fresh mem'ries 
 of plenty afield. 
 
 With soft undertone of lament for the 
 passing of summer. 
 
 The song of the cloudlet whose shadow 
 slips down the green vale — 
 
 An exquisite strain, that just floats to the 
 far edge of hearing ; 
 
 A measure so fine that its melody dies at a 
 look. 
 
ON MURRAY HILL 
 
 Mount Morris, N. V. 
 
 Over my head the whispering leaves, 
 Over the leaves the fair young moon, 
 
 Over the moon the silent stars, 
 
 Piercing earth's night with their myriad 
 noon. 
 
 IN THE RYE-FIELD 
 
 O reaper there, pray tell me, where 
 Goes all your golden grain ? 
 
 " Why, some to mill, and some to still. 
 And some into the ground again." 
 
 •HH* 
 
FUGACITY 
 
 Quick, quick, my pen and paper, 
 
 For here's a thought — 
 A bright one, with a merry caper — 
 
 It must be caught ! 
 
 Ah, now the elfin sprite 
 
 I'll bring to book ! 
 A captive trim in black and white, 
 
 That all may look 
 
 And note its pretty paces : — 
 
 Alack a day ! 
 The wary imp, by all the Graces, 
 
 Has skipped away ! 
 
GIRLISH LAUGHTER 
 
 O, chide her laughter not; 
 
 'Tis sweeter far, I wot — 
 So natural, so joyous, and so free — 
 
 Than prim or artful titter, 
 
 Or timid, tight-laced twitter, 
 Or delicately simpering te-hee. 
 
 Those swelling notes bespeak 
 Young blood and sound physique, 
 
 A conscience clear, an open heart and 
 whole. 
 They flood the place with gladness, 
 Submerging care and sadness. 
 
 And lave the tender edges of the soul ! 
 
A TAYTOTALLER'S EFFOOSION 
 
 Av all daintie dhrinks, 
 
 Shure the foinest, met'inks. 
 Not aven axceptin' Tokay, 
 
 Is the koind that's done up 
 
 In sawsur an' cup. 
 Oi mane an infoosion av tay. 
 
 Now some tay is Oolong, 
 
 An' some is too sthrong, 
 An' some's loike a whiff av owld hay. 
 
 Some's bitther, some's flat, 
 
 Some's wake, an' all that. 
 Oi calls thhn illoosions av tay. 
 
 But the rale-ginnuoine- 
 
 Nonpareel-supperfoine- 
 Set-'em-up-from-beyant-the-broad-say- 
 
 Limmon -sugar-or-crame- 
 
 Wid-a-shmell-loike-a-dhrame — 
 Thafs Nora's infoosion av tay ! 
 
AUNT PHEBE VISITS THE CITY 
 
 It's skerce a week I've been in taown, 
 
 A-shoppin' an' a-chinnin', 
 An' O so busy runnin' raoun' ; 
 
 An' yit I am beginnin' 
 To feel a leetle homesick like, 
 
 To wish't I was away 
 From this great, hustlin', bustlin' place 
 
 An' back to ol' Nunda. 
 
 Yer city streets is straight an' wide, 
 
 An' smoother' n aour barn floor. 
 They's ev'rythin', an' lots beside, 
 
 Fer sale to Barnum's store. 
 Ye've tra-la keers an' bullyvards — 
 
 But jes' give me, I say, 
 or sorrel Dan an' the road that runs 
 
 'Tween aour haouse an' Nunda! 
 
 Yer Buff 'lo park is very fair ; 
 
 In summer it's reel pretty. 
 A-snuffin' of the breezes there 
 
 I most fergit the city. 
 But, my ! it ain't a sukkumstance 
 
 To the wavin' fields o' hay. 
 An' 'tater-lots, an' woodsy hills 
 
 That lies araound Nunda ! 
 
 Ye've 
 
Ye've here a glary 'lectric light, 
 
 An' there a dribblin' faountain. 
 I s'pose they cost a nawful sight, 
 
 But, la ! they ain't wuth caountin' 
 Agin' the gigglin' brook that turns 
 
 Aour mill acrost the way, 
 An' the moon that shines like a new milk- 
 pan 
 
 In the sky above Nunda ! 
 
AUNT PHEBE RETURNS HOME 
 
 Well, here I'm back to ol' Nunda, 
 
 Accordin' to my wishin's ; 
 Yit I can't settle daown, some way, 
 
 Into the ol' conditions, 
 I'm all the while reel restless like, 
 
 From thinkin', don't ye know, 
 Of what good times they must be havin' 
 
 Up to Buffalo. 
 
 They's alwuz somethin' new in taown — 
 
 A lectur', book, or sich ; 
 An' neighbors keeps a-droppin' 'raoun' 
 
 To tea an' take a stitch. 
 But here, it's no use talkin', things 
 
 Is everlastin' slow — 
 Leastways, that's haow they 'pear to seem 
 
 Sence I's to Buffalo. 
 
 This Nunda road jes' makes me groan ; 
 
 or Dan has got the heaves ; 
 I hain't no book but Natur's own — 
 
 An' naow thafs short o' leaves. 
 The brook is froze; the mill-wheel's dry ; 
 
 The moon, fer all I know, 
 Is common cheese. I wish't I hadn't 
 
 Went to Buffalo ! 
 
AUTUMN SONG 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the sad- 
 dest of the year, 
 "When wheat has wholly lost its head, and 
 
 corn is on its ear; 
 When " Mr. Murphy" scans his dungeon 
 
 bin with starting eye, 
 And life is just a horrid grind to barley, 
 
 oats and rye ; 
 "When quakes the ruddy apple, quite be 
 
 cider self with fright, 
 And scenting roasts the turkey seeks a 
 
 higher roost at night ; 
 "When the boy of small size large sighs 
 
 heaves, and dreams — the greedy 
 
 sinner — 
 Of a land where Cook is queen and life 
 
 one long Thanksgiving dinner. 
 
A SONG FOR THE SEASON 
 
 While returning our thanks for the good 
 things we've got, 
 
 Let us gratefully dwell on some things we 
 have not; 
 
 On the blessed immunities brought by- 
 November. 
 
 Of such it were easy a score to remember. 
 
 Lo, is not the last plaguy house-fly now 
 
 dead, 
 To the joy of mankind, from sweet babe to 
 
 bald head ? 
 And how restful these nights when no 
 
 insect pipes shrill 
 Of his call in relation to " that httle bill." 
 
 True, the butterfly's gone, and departed 
 
 the bird; 
 But the swart street musician no longer is 
 
 heard, 
 Nor the huckster, apprising the town, 
 
 through his nose, 
 Of stale bargains in " Awringes ! Appuls ! 
 
 Tato-o-oes ! " 
 
 Thus 
 
Thus the catalogue each for himself may 
 extend, 
 
 Till of sweet deprivations there seemeth no 
 end. 
 
 Then up, all ye favored ones, stir the dull 
 ember, 
 
 And welcome immunity-bringing Novem- 
 ber! 
 
MY "MACKINAW" 
 
 Farewell, my faithful Mackinaw, 
 
 Farewell ! It is October, 
 When proper men put off the straw 
 
 And on the derby sober. 
 
 Farewell ! Two frolic seasons through 
 
 Thou' St been a merry thatch ; 
 But scorching sun and stiffening dew 
 
 Have done thee. Now the match ! 
 
 Farewell ! T' were better thou shouldst burn 
 Than crown some graceless bummer. 
 
 I'll save thy cinders in an urn 
 
 Marked, " Ashes of the Summer." 
 
 Farewell ! For I'm a proper man. 
 And so, the match — But stay ! 
 
 Come shine or shower, old hat of tan, 
 I'll wear thee one more day ! 
 
ANSWERED 
 
 I stood on the sounding shore, 
 
 I questioned the furious sea : 
 
 ** O, why in white anger uptossed ? ' 
 
 And out of the wild uproar 
 
 The answer came hissing to me : 
 
 " Because I'm incessantly crossed ! 
 
 A WORD TO THE SOUR 
 
 When your seat you resign 
 To a lady, don't lower, 
 Or speak in a whine. 
 
 When your seat you resign 
 Let the action be fine. 
 In politeness is power. 
 
 When your seat you resign 
 To a lady, donH lower. 
 
 *HH* 
 
OF MY LADY 
 
 My Lady's smile it is the day; 
 
 Now bright and gay, 
 Now grave, now fading soft away. 
 
 My Lady's hair is a stream of gold. 
 
 Refined; down-rolled 
 In rippling waves of wealth untold. 
 
 My Lady's brow is a snowy plain. 
 
 One slender vein 
 Divides its calm expanse in twain. 
 
 My Lady's eye is a well of blue, 
 
 Wherein I view 
 The image of her lover true. 
 
 My Lady's cheek is a garden fair, 
 
 A garden where 
 The rose and lily blossom e'er. 
 
 My Lady's mouth — O heart ! thy fate 
 
 Interminate 
 Is hid within that ruby gate. 
 
MY HEART UNQUIET IS 
 
 Sweet Summer rules in emerald peace 
 O'er river, field, and glade. 
 
 But O, my heart unquiet is, 
 Because of a maid. 
 
 The ancient hills with verdure fresh 
 
 How beauteously arrayed. 
 But Oy my heart unquiet is, 
 
 Because of a maid. 
 
 I note the bird's eve-song, the dew 
 Of mom on leaf and blade. 
 
 But O, my heart unquiet is, 
 Because of a maid. 
 
ON FINDING HER COMB 
 
 O foolish trinket to forsake 
 
 The charge that has been thine ! 
 
 I'd give my all, without an ache, 
 Could I but call it mine ! 
 
 To nestle in a maiden's hair, 
 
 To guard her gleaming tresses, — 
 
 "Who would not welcome that sweet care 
 A sluggish heart possesses ! 
 
 Then hie thee back, thou vagrant comb, 
 Fair Rachel's locks to grace, 
 
 Nor ever dare again to roam 
 From such a resting-place ! 
 
UNFULFILLMENT 
 
 A life just flowering into womanhood — 
 A glorious young life, pure, strong, and 
 free. 
 
 Elate and purposeful, resolved to be 
 And do, enthusiastic for the good. 
 
 Ah, but the changeful years, the lures, the 
 stress 
 Of circumstance ! Lo, many lives have 
 passed 
 From that proud phase, only to bend, at 
 last. 
 Unto the brazen yoke of worldliness. 
 
A PASTEL 
 
 To one within a garden wandering, 
 And dreamily demanding, right and left, 
 Saying, " What flower can with Her com- 
 
 pare 
 
 ? " 
 
 None made reply. 
 
 But, as he mused along, 
 With casual step, he felt anon a light, 
 Detaining touch upon his sleeve. He 
 
 paused. 
 And looking down, saw thorned unto his 
 
 side. 
 Heart-high, a perfect budding crimson rose. 
 
 With one elate beyond the garden passing 
 Went the sole flower which could with 
 
 Her compare ; 
 Went a perfect budding crimson rose. 
 
THE MILL-WHEEL 
 
 From the German 
 
 Down in a deep, cool valley, 
 Where turns a mill-wheel slow, 
 
 Once lived my best beloved, 
 Who left me long ago. 
 
 Her troth with me she plighted, 
 Gave me a ring — in vain ! 
 
 That troth was hghtly broken, 
 The ring, too, went in twain. 
 
 I would I were a minstrel. 
 To roam the wide world o'er, 
 
 And sing my song of sadness 
 As I passed from door to door. 
 
 I would I were a trooper 
 Far in the bloody fight, 
 
 Or by the embers lying 
 Upon the field at night. 
 
 Ah, when I hear the mill-wheel 
 I know not what I will — 
 
 I long to cease from living, 
 For then it would be still. 
 
A WISH 
 
 O me, what would I not give for one 
 look (so he said) 
 
 On this fair world through the far- 
 dreaming eyes of yon maid ! 
 
 WITH LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY 
 
 *' Ladder to Heaven," some call it. 
 
 Heaven for me, O Girl, 
 
 Is just as high as your heart. 
 
 I plant this ladder ; I dare to climb. 
 
 TO 
 
 I call thee cousin of the rose, 
 Related to the lily, 
 Having with the violet 
 And marigold sweet kinship. 
 And for this I know it : 
 Lip, eye, brow, hair show it. 
 
A VALENTINE 
 
 Dearest maiden, in verse — 
 [Rose, tell ker the rest.') 
 
 Dearest maiden, in verse 
 
 I fain would rehearse — 
 Ah, have you not guessed ? 
 
 Dearest maiden, in verse — 
 [Rose, tell her the rest /) 
 
 THE BUTTON SLIPPER 
 
 My Lady her foot 
 
 In a sHpper hath put 
 So dainty it sets me a-sighing : 
 
 Heigh-ho ! Well-a-day ! 
 
 But off and away 
 With a shpper that needeth no tying. 
 
THE LIGHT OF LIGHTS 
 
 O, a glorious thing is the Hght of the sun, 
 Bringing life, and joy, and love. 
 
 O, a noble thing, when the day is done, 
 Is the light of the stars above. 
 
 And a welcome thing is the light whose 
 gleams 
 
 Betoken the journey's end. 
 But the light of lights is the light that beams 
 
 For me in the eye of a friend. 
 
 ^H* 
 
THOUGHTS ON THE LAST LINES 
 OF TENNYSON'S " ULYSSES " , 
 
 To strive, in all my strength, unceasingly. 
 With that low self which, counseled by the 
 
 world, 
 Doth ever plot to overcome my soul. 
 
 To seek, unswervingly, the highest truths, 
 The noblest friendships, and the purest joys, 
 Despising naught, and hoping everything. 
 
 To find that peace which fills the Universe, 
 That rest whereof they only can partake 
 Whose faith and trust are with the Infinite. 
 
 And not to yield — ah, feeble is this flesh ! 
 Yet, if I ask it of th' Eternal, He 
 Will make me strong to hold and even to 
 gain. 
 
INFINITE TRUST 
 
 Come poverty and want ; 
 Come sudden sickness, pain; 
 Come stealthy, fell disease ; 
 Come dull, decrepit age. 
 Come envious, biting tongues, 
 Deceit, misjudgment, hate; 
 Come loss of fame or place, 
 Of dear or dearest friend. 
 Come hopes' decay, come all 
 The undiscerning world 
 Deems worst in circumstance. 
 Lo, I have that within 
 Shall nerve my soul to face 
 The whole dread catalogue, 
 To meet them with a song ! 
 
The Universe is pictured in the clod : 
 The voice of the cricket is the voice of God. 
 
 The lowly ant toils out her little year 
 Directed by no earthly engineer. 
 
 Rare secrets in the spider's web are spun, 
 Inviolate between herself and One. 
 
W 13 
 

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