Along the Shore | Page 6

ancient to myself I seem,?I might have crossed grave Styx's stream
A year ago;--?My word, 'tis so;--?And now be wandering with my sires?In that rare world we wonder o'er,?Half disbelieve, and prize the more!
Yet spruce I am, and still can mix?My wits with all the sparkling tricks,
A youth and girl?At twenty's whirl?Play round each other's bosom fires,?On this brisk earth I once enjoyed:--?But now I'm otherwise employed!
Am I a thing without a name;?A sort of dummy in the game?
"Not young, not old:"?A world is told?Of misery in that lengthened phrase;?Yet, gad, although my coat be smooth,?My forehead's wrinkled,--that's the truth!
I hardly know which road to go.?With youth? Perhaps. With age? Oh no!
Well, then, with those?Who share my woes,?Doomed to mere fashionable ways,--?Fair matrons, cigarettes, and tea,?Sighs, mirrors, and society?
Is it a folly still to twirl,?And smirk and promenade and querl
About the town??I'll put this down:?A man becomes downright blast?Before he knows that he is either?That, or what I am--call it, "Neither."
Oh, for a hint what we shall do,?We bucks whose comedy is through!
Who'd be sedate??And yet I hate?To pose persistently to-day?As one just trying flights, you know,?When I did try them long ago!
Suppose I hurry up the tide?Of age, and bravely drift beside
Those hoary dogs?Who lie like logs?Around the clubs where life is hushed??My blood runs cold! What? Say farewell?To this year's new bewildering belle!
Hold, man, the secret broad and huge,?With every well-known subterfuge!
If bald and gray?And thin, still say?You're only thirty: don't be crushed;?But when your voice shakes o'er a pun,?Be off to China:--your day's done!
USED UP.
Hand me my light gloves, James;?I'm off for the waltzing world,?The kingdom of Strauss and that--?Where is my old crush-hat??Is my hair properly curled??Call in the daytime, James.
Think of me, won't you, James,?When I am rosily twirling?The "Rose of a garden of girls,"?The Pearl among circling pearls,?In a mesh of melodious whirling??Envy me, won't you, James?
For a heart lost along with her fan,?For a nice sense of honor flown,?For the care of an invalid soul,?And tastes far beyond my control,--?I have for my precious own?The fame of a "waltzing man."
If I don't come, come for me, James.?Ah, the waltz is my mastering passion!?The trip-tripping airs are as sweet?As love to my turning feet,?While I clasp the fair doll of fashion,?My _fiancée_. But come for me, James.
The heart which I lost--it is strange--?I've been told it will yet be my death;?And I think it quite likely I might?Waltz once too often to-night,?In spite of the music and Beth.?Death's a difficult move to arrange.
Pray smoke by the fire, old boy,?And find yourself whiskey and books.?If I should not turn up, then, at two?Or three, you will know I need you.?If I'm dead, you must pardon my looks?As I lie in the ball-room, old boy.
A YOUTH'S SUICIDE.
He handed his life a poisoned draught,?With a scornful smile and a cold, cold glance,?And the merry bystanders loudly laughed?(For the rollicking world was gay!).
He thought she knew not the juice, perchance;?But her tears fell down to her sobbing lips?While the merry-makers turned to the dance?(The world was mocking fate that day!).
To his life he kissed his finger-tips:?"Drink deep the beaker, and so farewell!"?Then slowly the poisoned draught she sips?(How they laugh at her meek dismay!).
He sprang to her arm, which loosely fell,?Crying: "No! not yet that dire eclipse!"?Now loud laughed the dancers, and whirled pell-mell?(While the echoes hurried away!).
The mad world clustered, it seemed, around.?"Farewell!" she sighed, sinking; then from afar?Flowed the pealing laughter and wassail's sound?(For the dead the world will not stay!).
TWENTY BOLD MARINERS.
Twenty bold mariners went to the wave,?Twenty sweet breezes blew over the main;?All were so hearty, so free, and so brave,--?But they never came back again!
Half the wild ocean rose up to the clouds,?Half the broad sky scowled in thunder and rain;?Twenty white crests rose around them like shrouds,?And they stayed in the dancing main!
This is easy to sing, and often to mourn,?And the breaking of dawn is no newer to-day;?But those who die young, or are left forlorn,?Think grief is no older than they!
IN THE ARTILLERY.
We are moving on in silence,?Save for rattling iron and steel,?And a skirmish echoing round us,?Showering faintly, peal on peal.
Like a lion roars the North wind?As a-horse we sternly clank,?While beside the guns our men drop,?Slyly shot from either flank.
You are musing, love, and smiling?By the hearth-fire of the Mill,?While the tangled oaks are cracking?Boughs upon the windy hill.
I can see the moonlight shining?Over fields of frozen calm;?I can hear the chapel organ,?And the singing of the psalm.
Fare you well, then, English village,?Which of all I loved the most,?Where my ghost alone can wander?Once again, when life is lost.
Fare you well, then, Sally Dorset;?You will never utter wail?For the soldier dead who loved you?With these tears of no avail!
I can see your drowsy lashes?Lifting as you hear them read?Prayers