Songs and Other Verse | Page 9

that beautiful land
Which is famed for
its soap and its Moor,
For, as we understand,
The scenery is grand

Though the system of railways is poor.
For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold
Glint the orchards of
lemons and mangoes,
And the ladies, we're told,
Are a joy to
behold
As they twine in their lissome fandangoes.
What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar
And murmur a
passionate strain;
Oh, fairer by far
Than those ravishments are

The castles abounding in Spain.

These castles are built as the builder may list--
They are sometimes of
marble or stone,
But they mostly consist
Of east wind and mist

With an ivy of froth overgrown.
A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise
On a futile foundation of hope,

And its glories shall blaze
In the somnolent haze
Of the mythical
lake del y Soap.
The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air
And the visions of
Dreamland obtain,
And the song of "World's Fair"
Shall be heard
everywhere
Through that beautiful castle in Spain.
LOVE SONG--HEINE
Many a beauteous flower doth spring
From the tears that flood my
eyes,
And the nightingale doth sing
In the burthen of my sighs.
If, O child, thou lovest me,
Take these flowerets fair and frail,
And
my soul shall waft to thee
Love songs of the nightingale.
THE STODDARDS
When I am in New York, I like to drop around at night,
To visit with
my honest, genial friends, the Stoddards hight; Their home in Fifteenth
street is all so snug, and furnished so, That, when I once get planted
there, I don't know when to go; A cosy cheerful refuge for the weary
homesick guest,
Combining Yankee comforts with the freedom of the
west.
The first thing you discover, as you maunder through the hall, Is a
curious little clock upon a bracket on the wall;
'T was made by
Stoddard's father, and it's very, very old-- The connoisseurs assure me
it is worth its weight in gold;
And I, who've bought all kinds of clocks,
'twixt Denver and the Rhine, Cast envious eyes upon that clock, and
wish that it were mine.

But in the parlor. Oh, the gems on tables, walls, and floor-- Rare first
editions, etchings, and old crockery galore.
Why, talk about the
Indies and the wealth of Orient things-- They couldn't hold a candle to
these quaint and sumptuous things; In such profusion, too--Ah me! how
dearly I recall
How I have sat and watched 'em and wished I had 'em
all.
Now, Mr. Stoddard's study is on the second floor,
A wee blind dog
barks at me as I enter through the door;
The Cerberus would fain
begrudge what sights it cannot see, The rapture of that visual feast it
cannot share with me;
A miniature edition this--this most absurd of
hounds--
A genuine unique, I'm sure, and one unknown to Lowndes.
Books--always books--are piled around; some musty, and all old; Tall,
solemn folios such as Lamb declared he loved to hold; Large paper
copies with their virgin margins white and wide, And presentation
volumes with the author's comps. inside;
I break the tenth
commandment with a wild impassioned cry:
Oh, how came Stoddard
by these things? Why Stoddard, and not I?
From yonder wall looks Thackeray upon his poet friend,
And
underneath the genial face appear the lines he penned;
And here,
gadzooks, ben honge ye prynte of marvaillous renowne Yt shameth
Chaucers gallaunt knyghtes in Canterbury towne;
And still more
books and pictures. I'm dazed, bewildered, vexed; Since I've broke the
tenth commandment, why not break the eighth one next?
And, furthermore, in confidence inviolate be it said
Friend Stoddard
owns a lock of hair that grew on Milton's head; Now I have Gladstone
axes and a lot of curious things,
Such as pimply Dresden teacups and
old German wedding-rings; But nothing like that saintly lock have I on
wall or shelf, And, being somewhat short of hair, I should like that lock
myself.
But Stoddard has a soothing way, as though he grieved to see Invidious
torments prey upon a nice young chap like me.
He waves me to an

easy chair and hands me out a weed
And pumps me full of that advice
he seems to know I need;
So sweet the tap of his philosophy and
knowledge flows
That I can't help wishing that I knew a half what
Stoddard knows.
And so we sit for hours and hours, praising without restraint The
people who are thoroughbreds, and roasting the ones that ain't; Happy,
thrice happy, is the man we happen to admire,
But wretched, oh, how
wretched he that hath provoked our ire; For I speak emphatic English
when I once get fairly r'iled, And Stoddard's wrath's an Ossa upon a
Pelion piled.
Out yonder, in the alcove, a lady sits and darns,
And interjects
remarks that always serve to spice our yarns; She's Mrs. Stoddard;
there's a dame that's truly to my heart: A tiny little woman, but so
quaint, and good, and smart
That, if you asked me to suggest which