Songs and Other Verse | Page 7

ways
We walked together then!
Perhaps upon some star to-night,
So far away in space
I cannot see
that beacon light
Nor feel its soothing grace--
Perhaps from that
far-distant sphere
Her quickened vision seeks
For this poor heart of
mine that here
To its lost Cinna speaks.
Then search this heart, beloved eyes,
And find it still as true
As
when in all my boyhood skies
My guiding stars were you!
Cinna,
you know the mystery
That is denied to men--
Mine is the lot to
feel that we
Shall elsewhere love again!
BALLAD OF WOMEN I LOVE
Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate
Hid away in an oaken chest,

And a Franklin platter of ancient date
Beareth Amandy Baker's crest;

What times soever I've been their guest,
Says I to myself in an
undertone:
"Of womenfolk, it must be confessed,
These do I love,

and these alone."
Well, again, in the Nutmeg State,
Dorothy Pratt is richly blest
With
a relic of art and a land effete--
A pitcher of glass that's cut, not
pressed.
And a Washington teapot is possessed
Down in Pelham by
Marthy Stone--
Think ye now that I say in jest
"These do I love,
and these alone?"
Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate,
Or Dorcas Eastman prone to
invest
In Cupid's bonds, they could find their fate
In the bootless
bard of Crockery Quest.
For they've heaps of trumpery--so have the
rest
Of those spinsters whose ware I'd like to own;
You can see why
I say with such certain zest,
"These do I love, and these alone."
ENVOY
Prince, show me the quickest way and best
To gain the subject of my
moan;
We've neither spinsters nor relics out West--
These do I love,
and these alone.
SUPPOSE
Suppose, my dear, that you were I
And by your side your sweetheart
sate;
Suppose you noticed by and by
The distance 'twixt you were
too great;
Now tell me, dear, what would you do?
I know--and so
do you.
And when (so comfortably placed)
Suppose you only grew aware

That that dear, dainty little waist
Of hers looked very lonely there;

Pray tell me sooth--what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
When, having done what I just did
With not a frown to check or chill,

Suppose her red lips seemed to bid
Defiance to your lordly will;

Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
MYSTERIOUS DOINGS

As once I rambled in the woods
I chanced to spy amid the brake
A
huntsman ride his way beside
A fair and passing tranquil lake;

Though velvet bucks sped here and there,
He let them scamper
through the green--
Not one smote he, but lustily
He blew his
horn--what could it mean?
As on I strolled beside that lake,
A pretty maid I chanced to see

Fishing away for finny prey,
Yet not a single one caught she;
All
round her boat the fishes leapt
And gambolled to their hearts' content,

Yet never a thing did the maid but sing--
I wonder what on earth it
meant.
As later yet I roamed my way,
A lovely steed neighed loud and long,

And an empty boat sped all afloat
Where sang a fishermaid her
song;
All underneath the prudent shade,
Which yonder kindly
willows threw,
Together strayed a youth and maid--
I can't explain
it all, can you?
WITH TWO SPOONS FOR TWO SPOONS
How trifling shall these gifts appear
Among the splendid many
That
loving friends now send to cheer
Harvey and Ellen Jenney.
And yet these baubles symbolize
A certain fond relation
That well
beseems, as I surmise,
This festive celebration.
Sweet friends of mine, be spoons once more,
And with your tender
cooing
Renew the keen delights of yore--
The rapturous bliss of
wooing.
What though that silver in your hair
Tells of the years aflying?
'T is
yours to mock at Time and Care
With love that is undying.
In memory of this Day, dear friends,
Accept the modest token
From
one who with the bauble sends
A love that can't be spoken.

MARY SMITH
Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,
There
used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith; And though it's
many years since last I saw that pretty girl, And though I feel I'm sadly
worn by Western strife and whirl; Still, oftentimes, I think about the old
familiar place,
Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's
pretty face, And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow
I
used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.
I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird. A sweeter
voice than hers for song or speech I never heard. She was soprano in
the choir, and I a solemn bass,
And when we unisoned our voices
filled that holy place;
The tenor and the alto never had the slightest
chance,
For Mary's upper register made every heart-string dance;

And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I'd have you know I sung a
very likely bass when I was Mary's beau.
On Friday nights I'd drop around to make my weekly call,
And
though I came to visit her, I'd have to see 'em all.
With Mary's mother
sitting here and Mary's