The Scarlet Gown | Page 4

read 'Lovise,
Frederikstad'
Upon her stern.
Her stern long since was buried quite,
And soon no trace
The absorbing sand will leave in sight
To mark her place.
This reverie was not permitted
To last too long.
Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted
To fields of song.
And now he spoke of Marmion
And Lewis Morris;
The former he at school had done,
Along with Horace.
His maiden aunts, no longer young,
But learned ladies,
Had lately
sent him Songs Unsung,

Epic of Hades,
Gycia_, and _Gwen. He thought them fine;
Not like that Browning,
Of whom he would not read a line,
He told me, frowning.
Talking of Horace--very clever,
Beyond a doubt,
But what the Satires meant, he never
Yet could make out.
I said I relished Satire Nine
Of the First Book;
But he had skipped to the divine
Eliza Cook.
He took occasion to declare,
In tones devoted,
How much he loved
her old Arm-chair,
Which now he quoted.
And other poets he reviewed,
Some two or three,
Till, having touched on Thomas Hood,
He turned to me.
'Have you been stringing any rhymes
Of late?' he said.
I could not lie, but several times
I shook my head.
The last straw to the earth will bow

The o'erloaded camel,
And surely I resembled now
That ill-used mammal.
See how a thankless world regards
The gifted choir
Of minstrels,
singers, poets, bards,
Who sweep the lyre.
This is the recompense we meet
In our vocation.
We bear the burden and the heat
Of inspiration;
The beauties of the earth we sing
In glowing numbers,
And to the 'reading public' bring
Post-prandial slumbers;
We save from Mammon's gross dominion
These sordid times . . .
And all this, in the world's opinion,
Is 'stringing rhymes.'
It is as if a man should say,
In accents mild,
'Have you been
stringing beads to-day,
My gentle child?'
(Yet even children fond of singing
Will pay off scores,
And I to-day at least am stringing
Not beads but bores.)
And now the sands were left behind,

The Club-house past.
I wondered, Can I hope to find
Escape at last,
Or must I take him home to tea,
And bear his chatter
Until the last train to Dundee
Shall solve the matter?
But while I shuddered at the thought
And planned resistance,
My
conquering Alexander caught
Sight in the distance
Of two young ladies, one of whom
Is his ambition;
And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,
He asked permission
To say good-bye to me and follow.
I freely gave it,
And wished him all success. Apollo
Sic me servavit.
A BUNCH OF TRIOLETS
TO ---
You like the trifling triolet:
Well, here are three or four.
Unless your likings I forget,
You like
the trifling triolet.
Against my conscience I abet
A taste which I deplore;
You like the trifling triolet:

Well, here are three or four.
Have you ever met with a pretty girl
Walking along the street,
With
a nice new dress and her hair in curl?
Have you ever met with a pretty
girl,
When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl
Wafted it right to your feet?
Have you ever met with a pretty girl
Walking along the street?
I ran into a lady's arms,
Turning a corner yesterday.
To my confusion, her alarms,
I ran into
a lady's arms.
So close a vision of her charms
Left me without a word to say.
I ran into a lady's arms,
Turning a corner yesterday.
How many maids you love,
How many maids love you!
Your
conscious blushes prove
How many maids you love.
Each trusts
you like a dove,
But would she, if she knew
How many maids you love,
How many maids love you?
A BALLAD OF REFRESHMENT
The lady stood at the station bar,
(Three currants in a bun)
And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
For a weekly wage she was standing there,
(Three currants in a bun)
With a prominent bust and light gold hair.

(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
The express came in at half-past two,
(Three currants in a bun)
And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.
(Three currants in a bun)
Much
travel had made him very keen.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
A sober man and steady was he.
(Three currants in a bun)
He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
'Now something to eat, for the train is late.'
(Three currants in a bun)
She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
He left the bun, and he left the tea,
(Three currants in a bun)
She charged him a shilling and let him be,

And the train went on at a quarter to three.
(And the bun is old and weary.)
A DECEMBER DAY
Blue, blue is the sea to-day,