When hearts are trumps | Page 4

my
malady simply was dreaming of you!
I've one wish. 'Tis to sleep all the long ages through
By your side,
you my bride, and I dreaming of you.
Please Return.
Now, all you pretty maids in town,
Take heed of my sad plight.
I've
lost a kiss; I'll give a crown
To get it back to-night.
I threw it, poet-like, I own,
Up to a silvery star;
I must confess I
might have known
I could not throw so far.
But, oh, surprise! It circled round,
And sank as though 't were laden

With love--when almost to the ground
'T was caught by some
young maiden.
And that young maid I wish to find.
I've lost a kiss, alack!
It is not
hers. She'll not be kind
Unless she give it back.
Almost Dying of Ennui.
What are the charms of the sea?
Oh for an hour of the city!
What
are the dull waves to me?
Can they say anything witty?
What do they care for my lips?
Why did I come? It's a pity!

Nothing but water and ships,
And Jack far away in the city.
Oh for one ride in the park,
With Jack humming bars from a ditty;

Kissing me (when it grows dark).
Fy! Oh--heigho, for the city!
Jacks from Jack.
Fresh, fragrant, tempting, balmy, red--
What fool would send them
back?
Why do I wish that I were dead,
With all these jacks from

Jack?
Why do I bite my lips and frown,
Tear buttons off my sacque,

When, just returning to the town,
I get these jacks from Jack?
Alas, for pleasure's giddy whirl,
For summer lost, alack!
He's off to
see some other girl;
That's why mere jacks from Jack.
Hyacinths.
Hyacinths, tenderly sweet,
Is it life that you ask in your prayer?
Ah,
I would die at her feet,
If I could be one of you there.
There on her billowy breast,
So near to her innocent heart,
That its
beating would lull me to rest,
And to dream I should never depart.
Sighing are you for the stars?
Look in the depths of her eyes.
Is
there a gem of the Czar's
So much like those gems of the skies?
Is it the dew that you miss?
Hyacinths, hyacinths, wait.
Soon she
will give you a kiss.
Oh, how I envy your fate!
In The Waltz.
AN ECHO FROM A SEASIDE HOP.
Light as the waves foaming white on the bar,
We dance to the
mandolin, harp, and guitar;
One, two, three, waltzing we glide round
the room,--
Would you were bride, and ah, would I were groom!
On all the seashore none fairer than you;
What but adore you could
any one do?
Cheeks like the pink of an evening sky,
Eyes that
might bid a man laughingly die.
Ears like the shells from the Indian sea,
Teeth like white buds on a
young apple-tree,
Throat like a lily bent heavy with dew,
Arms just

as white and as lily-like too.
Lips that would tempt--ah! you'll pardon me now,
Being so near them
suggests, you'll allow,
That the happiest thing e'er a mortal could do,

Would be to be ever thus waltzing with you.
She Is Mine.
There's a sparkle in her eye
That no millionnaire can buy.
If they
think so, let them try--
She's divine.
There's a blush upon her cheek
Like the peach-tree's blossom, eke,

Like red willows by the creek,
Or like wine.
She has roses in her hair.
It was I who put them there.
Really, did I
ever dare--
Is she mine?
Or is it all a dream,--
Idle poet's empty theme
Put in words that
make it seem
Superfine?
No; for see upon her hand
There's a little golden band,--
Filigree
work, understand,
Like a vine;
And a perfect solitaire
Fits upon it. The affair
Cost two hundred. I
don't care!
She is mine.
Old Times.
Ah, good old times of belles and beaux,
Of powdered wigs and
wondrous hose,
Of stately airs and careful grace,
Look you at our
degenerate race.

No more the gallant spends his time
In writing of his love in rhyme;

No more he lives unconscious of
All earthly things save war and
love.
We modern men have toils and cares
To streak our pates with
whitened hairs,
And have to crowd our love and all
Into one short
and weekly call.
Of My Love.
Was ever a moon
In joyous June
As royal, radiant, rare as she,
With her smiling lips,
As she lightly trips
Down through the
autumn woods to me?
Never a queen
On her throne, I ween,
Had such a loyal slave as I.
Ready to bear
All her cares, I swear,
Just for a fleeting kiss on the
sly.
Oh for the day
We gallop away
To the curate's cottage, Gretna
Green;
Side by side,
Groom and bride,
Happy twenty and sweet sixteen!
The Farewell.
Not going abroad? What, to-morrow,
And to stay, goodness knows
for how long?
Really, Jack, 'twould appear that dry sorrow
Had
done even you, sir, a wrong.
It has? Ha, ha, ha! What a joke, sir!
Is it Mabel or Jenny or Nell?

I'm sure you are wrong,--hold my cloak, sir,--
Am I not an old friend?
Come now, tell.
The prince of our set broken-hearted!
What a joke! Who rejected you?
Speak!
Did you look like that,