Cap and Gown | Page 8

to spare,?Babbling on in a thoughtless whirl;?Would-be worshippers, O beware!?These are the ways of the modern girl.
Faces fickle as April skies,?Eyes where Cupid has made his lair;?When they tempt you to idolize,?Then for a broken heart prepare.?What does she care for your despair,?Striving peace from your life to hurl??Would-be worshippers, O take care!?These are the ways of the modern girl.
Ribbons and laces, smiles and sighs,?A knot of vermilion in her hair,?Glances where veiled deception lies,?A kiss, perchance, on the winding stair,?Exquisite gowns and roses rare,?Shimmer of silver, gloss of pearl--?Where is the heart, O woman, where??These are the ways of the modern girl.
ENVOY.
Fashion and pique her hours share,?Nature and truth their standards furl,?Fair as fickle, and false as fair,?These are the ways of the modern girl.
Columbia Spectator.
~A Wish.~
Cupid laughs, nor seems to care?How his shafts are wont to harrow.?Ah! that I could unaware,?Wound him with his golden arrow.
A.?Columbia Spectator.
~To Phyllis.~
I said your beauty shamed the rose's blush;?You thought the simile was trite, untrue;?But, oh, I saw each rose for pleasure flush?To hear itself compared, dear heart, to you!
ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE.?Columbia Spectator.
~L'Amour, L'Amour.~
We catch the fleeting perfume of roses?As the evening closes the golden day,?And the rhythmic beating of waves in motion?Comes from the ocean a mile away;?In the west is dying the sunset's splendor,?And twilight tender enfolds the land;?Where the tide is flying a-down the river,?And the grasses quiver, we silent stand.
In your radiant eyes the sun unknowing?Has left his glowing to deeper glow,?And your tender sighs sound far more sweetly?Than the winds that fleetly and blithely blow?And first all shyly your small hand lingers?With trembling fingers within my own,?The blushes slyly and swiftly starting,?And then departing like rose-leaves blown.
Alas, the envious time is fleeting,?But your heart is beating in time with mine,?And Cupid's rhyme rings louder--clearer,?As I draw you nearer, my love divine!?In the twilight dim we have found love's tether,?And are linked together, no more to part;?While the white stars swing in a maze of glory,?To hear the story that bares your heart.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.?Columbia Spectator.
~Lines on a Ring.~
Oh, precious drop of crystal dew,?Set in a tiny band of gold,?Which doth within its little grasp?A blue-veined finger softly hold--?Thou failest if thy radiant rays?Are seeking--bold attempt 'twould be!--?To show a fraction of the love?That beams from Edith's eyes on me.
LOREN M. LUKE.?Nassau Literary Monthly.
~A Memory.~
Shadows up the hillside creeping,?Gold in western sky,?Meadow-brook beneath us keeping?Dreamy lullaby.
Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming--?Gems in dark robes caught--?Everything about us seeming?With hidden meaning fraught.
Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning,?Challenge if I dare,?Vie with amorous sunbeams burning?O'er her face and hair.
But a truce to idle musing--?That was long ago.?Was she gracious or refusing??You may never know.
Winter's snows those fields are hiding?'Neath a robe of white,?For another she is biding?Tryst of love to-night.
I was only glancing over?A book beloved of yore,?When a sprig of mountain clover?Fluttered to the floor.
IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE.?Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
[Illustration: A WESLEYAN GIRL.]
~The Soul's Kiss.~
Not your sweet, red lips, dear,?Tremulous with sighs,?Lest their passion dull love's rapture;?Kiss me with your eyes.
Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear,?At the least touch flies,?Even lips may brush to dimness;?Kiss me with your eyes.
Pain within the bliss, dear,?Of those soft curves lies;?Only love the soul's light carries;?Kiss me with your eyes.
MAUD THOMPSON.?Wellesley Magazine.
~A Portrait.~
A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed;?A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown,?Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown?Wreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breast?A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest?Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown?Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown?Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.
Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame,?Between that starched old Bishop and the dame?In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire?And trip a minuet. You will not?--Fie!?Those mocking lips half make me wish that I,?Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.
Trinity Tablet.
~A Picture.~
On spinet old, Clarissa plays?The melodies of by-gone days.?Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune,?The bars of stately rigadoon.?With head bent down to scan each note,?A crimson ribbon round her throat,?The very birds to sing forget?As some old-fashioned minuet?Clarissa plays.
King George long since has passed away,?And minuets have had their day.?Within a hidden attic nook?Covered with dust, her music-book.?Gone are the keys her fingers pressed.?The bunch of roses at her breast.?But still, unmindful of time's flight,?With face so fair and hands so white,?Clarissa plays.
EDWARD B. REED.?Yale Literary Magazine.
~Tildy in the Choir.~
Lines that ripple, notes that dance,?Foreign measures brought from France,?Reaching with a careless ease?From high C to--where you please,?Clever, frivolous, and gay--?These will answer in their way;?But that tune of long ago--?Stately, solemn, somewhat slow?(Dear "Old Hundred"--that's the air)--?Will outrank them anywhere;?Once it breathed a seraph's fire.?(Tildy sang it in the choir.)
How she stood up straight and tall!?Ah! again I see it all;?Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,?Teeth like cream, and lips that