Cap and Gown | Page 6

buck!"?As they glared at the fortunate swain,?And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck--?My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig,?When, from under a broad scuttle hat,?The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big,?And--but no! would it dare tell of that??Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquette?How many a suitor was slain!?There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met?With the gleam of his gold-headed cane.
Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk!?They scent these old halls even yet;?I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk?They glide in the grave minuet.?The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride,?Long, long in the chest have they lain;?Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside?My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.?Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~Hours.~
Matchless, melting eyes of brown,?This is but a cheerless town;?You should beam 'neath warmer skies,?Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Yours should be a land of flowers,?Perfumed air and sunny hours;?Eastern fires within you rise,?Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,?Burning mystically bright,?Prithee here no longer stay,?You will burn my heart away.
W.?Hamilton Literary Monthly.
~A Fickle Heart.~
A fickle heart! Let subtler poets sing?Of changeless love and all that kind of thing,?Of hearts in which a passion never dies--?My heart's as fickle as the summer skies?Across whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.
Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring.?I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string,?Though each unto my questioning touch replies?A fickle heart.
So, 'twixt some thirty loves I'm wavering,?To each the same unstable vows I fling,?Reading the first glad gleam of love's surprise?In thirty pair of brown and azure eyes,?Finding in all the same thought answering;?A fickle heart.
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.?Columbia Spectator.
~My Lady goes to the Play.~
With the link-boys running on before?To light her on her way,?A-lounging in her sedan goes?Belinda to the play.
In patch and powder, puff and frill,?From satin shoe to hair,?Of all the maids in London town?I wot there's none so fair!
From Mayfair down along the Strand?To Covent Garden's light,?Where Master David Garrick acts?In a new r?le to-night,
The swinging sedan takes its way,?And with expectant air?Belinda fans, and wonders who?To-night there will be there.
Sir Charles, perhaps, or, happy thought,?Flushing thro' her powder,?He might come in--beneath her stays?She feels her heart beat louder.
The place, at last! The flunkies set?Their dainty burden down,?"Lud, what a crowd!" My Lady frowns?And gathers up her gown.
ENVOY.
Alack for human loveliness?And for its little span!?Where's Belinda? Here, quite fresh,?Are still her gown and fan!
ARTHUR KETCHUM.?Williams Literary Monthly.
~Confession and Avoidance.~
They say that you're a flirt at best,?And warn me to beware: your glances?Would make, they say, a treach'rous test?By which to gauge a fellow's chances.?And yet--I love you so! a throng?Of passions bid me speak to-day.?Ah! darling, tell me they are wrong!?Are you as heartless as they say?
Am I? well, so I have been told,?Though never yet have I confessed it;?But you, sir, seem so very bold?That I--well, I admit you've guessed it.?Alas! 'tis true I'm heartless; yes,?They're right, but only right in part;?The reason, dear, is--can't you guess??Because--because you have my heart.
JOHN ALAN HAMILTON.?Cornell Magazine.
~Clarissa Laughs.~
Clarissa laughs. I plead in vain,?She hears my suit with sweet disdain,?When I remind her--speaking low--?That once she did not flout me so,?She asks me--do I think 'twill rain??Then when in anger I am fain?To leave her, swear I've naught to gain?By staying, save th'increase of woe,?Clarissa laughs.
Yet when I beg of her to deign?To answer, give it joy or pain,?She smiles. So then I cannot go,?For with her smiles my love doth grow.?Yet when I press my suit again,
Clarissa laughs.
RUTH PARSONS MILNE.?Smith College Monthly.
~'Mid the Roses.~
'Mid the roses she is standing,?In her garden, waiting there;?Roses all about her glowing,?Roses shining in her hair.
May I, dare I, ask the question?Which my heart has asked before??Then I falter, "Can you love me,?Darling?" I can say no more.
Now the petals fall more slowly:?One has lodged upon her dress;?Now her eyes she raises gently;?Meeting mine, they answer "Yes."
F.T. GEROULD.?Dartmouth Literary Monthly.
~A Society Martyr.~
Rustling billows of silk 'neath the foam of old lace,?A half-languid smile upon each listless face,--?A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,--?A medley of modern and Grecian maids.?Such clatter and clink?One scarcely can think?Till he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,--?For how can a bachelor be at his ease?With such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?
Fair Phyllis's gold lashes demurely cast down,?Her face in sweet doubt 'twixt a smile and a frown,--?A venturesome rosebud o'ertopping the rest?Now lies all a-quiver upon her white breast,?The curves of her neck?Man's vow often wreck,--?She has the whole world at her call and her beck.?So how can a bachelor be at his ease?With such variant emotions at afternoon teas?
Behind sheltering palms, safe from gossips' sharp gaze,?Is acted in mime one of life's dearest plays,--?Sweet Bessie's brown eyes raised