Fly Leaves | Page 2

what a blessed thing it is!?To be photograph'd--together--cased in pretty Russia leather -
Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!
Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring--a rich and rare one -
Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things beside; And serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore her
To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!
Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover
Or Dieppe--and live in clover evermore, whate'er befalls: For I've read in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovel,
Folks PREFER in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls:
To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover's
Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn, Or dissects the lucky pheasant--that, I think, were passing pleasant;
As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
THE PALACE.
They come, they come, with fife and drum,
And gleaming pikes and glancing banners:?Though the eyes flash, the lips are dumb;
To talk in rank would not be manners.?Onward they stride, as Britons can;?The ladies following in the Van.
Who, who be these that tramp in threes
Through sumptuous Piccadilly, through?The roaring Strand, and stand at ease
At last 'neath shadowy Waterloo??Some gallant Guild, I ween, are they;?Taking their annual holiday.
To catch the destin'd train--to pay
Their willing fares, and plunge within it -?Is, as in old Romaunt they say,
With them the work of half-a-minute.?Then off they're whirl'd, with songs and shouting,?To cedared Sydenham for their outing.
I mark'd them light, with faces bright
As pansies or a new coin'd florin,?And up the sunless stair take flight,
Close-pack'd as rabbits in a warren.?Honour the Brave, who in that stress?Still trod not upon Beauty's dress!
Kerchief in hand I saw them stand;
In every kerchief lurk'd a lunch;?When they unfurl'd them, it was grand
To watch bronzed men and maidens crunch?The sounding celery-stick, or ram?The knife into the blushing ham.
Dash'd the bold fork through pies of pork;
O'er hard-boil'd eggs the saltspoon shook;?Leapt from its lair the playful cork:
Yet some there were, to whom the brook?Seem'd sweetest beverage, and for meat?They chose the red root of the beet.
Then many a song, some rather long,
Came quivering up from girlish throats;?And one young man he came out strong,
And gave "The Wolf" without his notes.?While they who knew not song or ballad?Still munch'd, approvingly, their salad.
But ah! what bard could sing how hard,
The artless banquet o'er, they ran?Down the soft slope with daisies starr'd
And kingcups! onward, maid with man,?They flew, to scale the breezy swing,?Or court frank kisses in the ring.
Such are the sylvan scenes that thrill
This heart! The lawns, the happy shade,?Where matrons, whom the sunbeams grill,
Stir with slow spoon their lemonade;?And maidens flirt (no extra charge)?In comfort at the fountain's marge!
Others may praise the "grand displays"
Where "fiery arch," "cascade," and "comet,"?Set the whole garden in a "blaze"!
Far, at such times, may I be from it;?Though then the public may be "lost?In wonder" at a trifling cost.
Fann'd by the breeze, to puff at ease
My faithful pipe is all I crave:?And if folks rave about the "trees
Lit up by fireworks," let them rave.?Your monster fetes, I like not these;?Though they bring grist to the lessees.
PEACE--A STUDY.
He stood, a worn-out City clerk -
Who'd toil'd, and seen no holiday,?For forty years from dawn to dark -
Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.
He felt the salt spray on his lips;
Heard children's voices on the sands;?Up the sun's path he saw the ships
Sail on and on to other lands;
And laugh'd aloud. Each sight and sound
To him was joy too deep for tears;?He sat him on the beach, and bound
A blue bandana round his ears:
And thought how, posted near his door,
His own green door on Camden Hill,?Two bands at least, most likely more,
Were mingling at their own sweet will
Verdi with Vance. And at the thought
He laugh'd again, and softly drew?That Morning Herald that he'd bought
Forth from his breast, and read it through.
THE ARAB.
On, on, my brown Arab, away, away!?Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day,?And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare?Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair,?To tread with those echoless unshod feet?Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat,?Where no palmtree proffers a kindly shade?And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade;?And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough?Oh! it goes to my heart--but away, friend, off!
And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand,?As thou standest now, on thy Native Strand,?With the wild wind ruffling thine uncomb'd hair,?And thy nostril upturn'd to the od'rous air,?Would not woo thee to pause till his skill might trace?At leisure the lines of that eager face;?The collarless neck and the coal-black paws?And the bit grasp'd tight in the massive jaws;?The delicate curve of the legs, that seem?Too slight for their burden--and, O, the gleam?Of that eye, so