Along the Shore | Page 6

dust.
The scornfullest souls, with mourning eyes,
Pant o'er again their
ghostly ways;--
Dread night-paths, where were gleaming days

When life was lovelier than the skies!
THE GIRLS WE MIGHT HAVE WED.
Come, brothers, let us sing a dirge,--
A dirge for myriad chances dead;

In grief your mournful accents merge:
Sing, sing the girls we might
have wed!
Sweet lips were those we never pressed
In love that never lost the
dew
In sunlight of a love confessed,--
Kind were the girls we never
knew!
Sing low, sing low, while in the glow
Of fancy's hour those forms we

trace,
Hovering around the years that go;
Those years our lives can
ne'er replace!
Sweet lips are those that never turn
A cruel word; dear eyes that lead

The heart on in a blithe concern;
White hand of her we did not
wed;
Fair hair or dark, that falls along
A form that never shrinks with time;

Bright image of a realm of song,
Standing beside our years of
prime;--
When you shall go, then may we know
The heart is dead, the man is
old.
Life can no other charm bestow
When girls we might have
loved turn cold!
"NEITHER!"
So 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