Poems from The Teacups | Page 4

at the turn of the road.
I pass the low wall where the ivy entwines;
I tread the brown pathway
that leads through the pines;
I haste by the boulder that lies in the
field,
Where her promise at parting was lovingly sealed.
Will she come by the hillside or round through the wood?
Will she
wear her brown dress or her mantle and hood?
The minute draws
near,--but her watch may go wrong;
My heart will be asking, What
keeps her so long?
Why doubt for a moment? More shame if I do!
Why question? Why

tremble? Are angels more true?
She would come to the lover who
calls her his own
Though she trod in the track of a whirling cyclone!
I crossed the old bridge ere the minute had passed.
I looked: lo! my
Love stood before me at last.
Her eyes, how they sparkled, her cheeks,
how they glowed,
As we met, face to face, at the turn of the road!
IN VITA MINERVA
VEX not the Muse with idle prayers,--
She will not hear thy call;

She steals upon thee unawares,
Or seeks thee not at all.
Soft as the moonbeams when they sought
Endymion's fragrant bower,

She parts the whispering leaves of thought
To show her full-blown
flower.
For thee her wooing hour has passed,
The singing birds have flown,

And winter comes with icy blast
To chill thy buds unblown.
Yet, though the woods no longer thrill
As once their arches rung,

Sweet echoes hover round thee still
Of songs thy summer sung.
Live in thy past; await no more
The rush of heaven-sent wings;

Earth still has music left in store
While Memory sighs and sings.
READINGS OVER THE TEACUPS
FIVE STORIES AND A SEQUEL
TO MY OLD READERS
You know "The Teacups," that congenial set
Which round the Teapot
you have often met;
The grave DICTATOR, him you knew of old,--

Knew as the shepherd of another fold
Grayer he looks, less
youthful, but the same
As when you called him by a different name.

Near him the MISTRESS, whose experienced skill
Has taught her

duly every cup to fill;
"Weak;" "strong;" "cool;" "lukewarm; "hot as
you can pour;" "No sweetening;" "sugared;" "two lumps;" "one lump
more."
Next, the PROFESSOR, whose scholastic phrase
At every
turn the teacher's tongue betrays,
Trying so hard to make his speech
precise
The captious listener finds it overnice.
Nor be forgotten our ANNEXES twain,
Nor HE, the owner of the
squinting brain,
Which, while its curious fancies we pursue,
Oft
makes us question, "Are we crack-brained too?"
Along the board our growing list extends,
As one by one we count
our clustering friends,--
The youthful DOCTOR waiting for his share

Of fits and fevers when his crown gets bare;
In strong, dark lines
our square-nibbed pen should draw
The lordly presence of the MAN
OF LAW;
Our bashful TUTOR claims a humbler place,
A lighter
touch, his slender form to trace.
Mark the fair lady he is seated by,--

Some say he is her lover,--some deny,--
Watch them
together,--time alone can show
If dead-ripe friendship turns to love or
no.
Where in my list of phrases shall I seek
The fitting words of
NUMBER FIVE to speak?
Such task demands a readier pen than
mine,--
What if I steal the Tutor's Valentine?
Why should I call her gracious, winning, fair?
Why with the loveliest
of her sex compare?
Those varied charms have many a Muse
inspired,--
At last their worn superlatives have tired;
Wit, beauty,
sweetness, each alluring grace,
All these in honeyed verse have found
their place;
I need them not,--two little words I find
Which hold
them all in happiest form combined;
No more with baffled language
will I strive,--
All in one breath I utter: Number Five!
Now count our teaspoons--if you care to learn
How many tinkling
cups were served in turn,--
Add all together, you will find them ten,--

Our young MUSICIAN joined us now and then.
Our bright
DELILAH you must needs recall,

The comely handmaid, youngest of

us all;
Need I remind you how the little maid
Came at a pinch to
our Professor's aid,--
Trimmed his long locks with unrelenting shears

And eased his looks of half a score of years?
Sometimes, at table, as you well must know,
The stream of talk will
all at once run low,
The air seems smitten with a sudden chill,
The
wit grows silent and the gossip still;
This was our poet's chance, the
hour of need,
When rhymes and stories we were used to read.
One
day a whisper round the teacups stole,--
"No scrap of paper in the
silver bowl!"
(Our "poet's corner" may I not expect
My kindly
reader still may recollect?)
"What! not a line to keep our souls alive?"

Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five.
"No matter, something
we must find to read,--
Find it or make it,--yes, we must indeed!

Now I remember I have seen at times
Some curious stories in a book
of rhymes,--
How certain secrets, long in silence sealed,
In after
days were guessed at or revealed.
Those stories, doubtless, some of
you must know,--
They all were written many a year ago;
But an
old story, be it false or true,
Twice told, well told, is twice as good as
new;
Wait but three sips and I will