H
OT, hot glows the sunshine in laughing July.Scarce flutter the leaves in the soft summer sigh:
The rooks scarcely swing on the tops of the trees,
While river-reeds nod to the lime-scented breeze:
A roseleaf, a-bask in the sunshiny gleam,
Half sleeps in the dimples that chequer the stream;
The dragon-fly hushes his day-dreamy lay,
The silver trout sulks in his sedge-shaded bay—
While our thoughts sweetly run in a soft singing rhyme,
As we lazily loiter in strawberry time!
Sweet, sweet is the scent of the newly-mown hay,
Light borne by the breeze on a bright summer's day;
And cool is the sound of the musical plash,
As bright bubbles fall in the fountain and flash.
'Tis joy then to wander in gay golden hours,
And dream 'mid the hues of the bright-tinted flow'rs;
When the velvety lawn is most soft to the tread,
And ruddy fruit hangs in the leaf-covered bed—
Then the roundest, the sweetest, the best of the prime,
Will we gather together in strawberry time!
Joy, joy 'tis to whisper and laugh in the shade,
And pluck the ripe fruit for my hazel-eyed maid;
To watch her delight as she eagerly clips
A pink British Queen with her soft pouting lips!
While lovingly gazing I'm apt to compare
The warm blushing berries with lips of my fair;
I'm doubtful, indeed, if the fruit of the South
Could equal the charm of her ripe little mouth—
'Tis so round and so soft, 'twould be scarcely a crime
All my doubts to dispel in sweet strawberry time!
Light, light is the laughter that carelessly rings,
And sweet is the carol she tenderly sings!
I murmur a story we all of us know—
Her soft dainty dimples, they come and they go;
Her eyelids droop down o'er those sweet little eyes,
Her laughter is hushed in a tumult of sighs:
Those pretty, plump fingers, red-stained to the tips,
All tremble, while pouting are rosy-red lips.
Then the bard whispers low, 'neath the tremulous lime,
"Lips sweeter than fruit are in strawberry time!"
NUMBER ONE.
PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG LADY.
"No. 1," in a collection of one thousand five hundred and eighty-three works of art, at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy.
M
Y favourite, you must know,In the Piccadilly Show,
Is the portrait of a lass
Bravely done.
'Mid the fifteen eighty-three
Works of art that you may see,
There is nothing can surpass—
"Number One"!
Very far above the line
Is this favourite of mine;
You may see her smiling there
O'er the crowds.
If you bring a good lorgnette,
You may see my dainty pet;
Like the Jungfrau, pink and fair,
'Mid the clouds.
My enchanting little star,
How I wonder what you are,
With your rosy laughing lips
Full of fun.
Have you many satellites,
Do you shine so bright o' nights,
That there's nothing can eclipse
"Number One"?
Are you constant in your loves?
Do you change them with your gloves?
Pray does Worth pervade your train—
Or your heart?
Are you fickle, are you leal,
Are your sunny tresses real,
Or your roses only vain
Works of art?
I sincerely envy him
Who the fortune had to limn
Your bewitching hazel eyes
With his brush:
Who could study ev'ry grace
In your winsome little face,
And the subtle charm that lies
In your blush.
I am sure it is a shame
That your pretty face and frame,
Ruthless hangers out of view
Seek to hide:
But no doubt Sir Frederick L——,
And his myrmidons as well,
Fancy angels such as you,
Should be "skyed"!
Ah! were I but twenty-two,
I would hinge the knee to you,
And most humbly kiss your glove
At your throne:
Thrice happy he whose sighs
Draw this sweet Heart Union prize
In the lottery of Love
For his own!
If I knew but your papa,
Could I only "ask mama,"
It is clear enough to me
As the sun,
That all through this weary life,
'Mid its pleasure, pain, and strife,
All my care and love should be
"Number One."
AFTER BREAKFAST.
T
HE ruddy ripe tomata,In china bowl of ice;
And grouse worth a sonata,
Undoubtedly are nice!
A pint of sound Hocheimer,
A dainty speckled trout,
Suffices for the Rhymer,
To break his fast no doubt!
I watch the busy bees on
The leaf beneath the lime:
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!
'Tis hot as in the tropics—
Too hot to ride or walk—
I have no store of topics,
I do not care to talk!
No matutinal journal
Has reached me—Do I fret?
'Neath leafy shade supernal,
I smoke a cigarette!
I care not for the Season,
Trade, Politics, or Crime:
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!
Pray, who would wear a tall hat?
Or buttoned in frock coat,
Would countless places call at,
When he might moon in boat?
Exploring river reaches,
And doing naught at all,
But plucking juicy peaches
That ripen on the wall!
I put just what I please on,
I take no heed of time:
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!
My thoughts all run together,
Regretfully I find;
They're melted by the weather,
To shapeless mass of mind!
It's much too hot for thinking,
Too sultry 'tis to chaff;
For eating or for drinking,
Too torrid e'en to laugh!
I know this sounds like treason—
I do not care one dime—
It's much too hot for reason,
And far too warm for rhyme!
IN AN OLD CITY CHURCH.
O
NE dull, foggy day in December,When biting and bleak was the air,
I once lost my way, I remember,
And paused in a quaint City square.
Though lacking all splendour or gladness,
The flavour of good long ago
Clung close to the place in its sadness,
And grave-yard half covered with snow;
While the black, puny branches, all leafless and bare,
Seemed to add to the gloom of this dull City square!
The railings were rusty and rimy,
The church looked so mouldy and grim;
The houses seemed haunted and grimy,
The windows were gruesome and dim.
The iron gate scrooped on its hinges,
The clock struck a querulous chime,
As though it were feeling some twinges
'Twas almost forgotten by Time.
But I opened the door, and the picture was fair,
In the fine ancient church, in this sad City square!
A fair little lass, holly-laden—
With eyes of cerulean blue—
Is helping a sweet dark-eyed maiden
Twine ivy with laurel and yew;
How busy the deft taper fingers!
What taste and what art they display!
How lovingly each of them lingers,
Adjusting a leaf or a spray!——
I close the door softly, I've no business there,
And drift out in the fog of the grim City square.
A LITTLE LOVE-LETTER.
O
PRETTY pet with the tangled hair,Down by the sighing summer sea—
O dimpled darling with checks so fair,
Tell me, O dearest, when musing there,
Will you think of me?
O sweetest sweet, when the salt breeze sighs
'Mid silken locks ever flowing free,
While gulls glint white against sleepy skies,
Will looks of those bright brown loving eyes
E'er be turned to me?
Ah, laughing child, when your eyes beam bright,
And lips are parted in girlish glee;
When the shore is glad in still summer night,
With your sweet soft smile, and your laughter light,
Do you smile on me?
When the moon is up, and sleeps the land
To tender music in minor key;
When the silver-ripples hush the strand
And scarcely dimple the golden sand,
Will you dream of me?
Poor little heart! when your cheeks are wet
With tears that sadden one's heart to see,
Your moist lips tremble—you can't forget
Sometimes the sun through the rain shines, pet,
When you weep for me!
STRAY SUNBEAMS.
A
WAY with great-coats and umbrellas!Put all furry garments away!
Let glossiest hats—all you fellas—
Gleam bright in the light of to-day!
The air it is balmy and vernal,
We feel a new life has begun:
For gone is the weather hibernal—
And here is the Sun!
The genial sunbeams, in-streaming,
Flash bright on my pen as I write!
The paper is glowing and gleaming—
My eyes are quite dazed with the light!
No longer I growl or I shiver,
Nor each fellow-creature I shun:
I dream of the joys of the River—
For here is the Sun!
For England, the atmosphere's splendid,
We live and we breathe now again!
We fancy our trouble is ended,
For gone is the fog and the rain:
I laugh and I sing and I chuckle,
I rhyme and I dance and I pun!
I knock on the pane with my knuckle—
For here is the Sun!
What portents of pleasure I fancy
Return with these bright sunny rays!
What visions of lazing I can see,
Of languorous, sweet Summer days;
Of yachting and sea-side diversions,
And getting as brown as a bun:
Of rambles and Alpine excursions—
For here is the Sun!
I think of long days at lawn-tennis,
Of dreams in my bass-wood canoe,
Of gondola-lounging at Venice,
And skies sempiternally blue!
I muse o'er the pleasures of playtime,
Of laziness, laughter, and fun;
Of lime-scented zephyrs and haytime—
But where is the Sun?
[Sun retires behind clouds, rain patters on the pane, and the Lazy One goes to bed.
PEARL.
P
EARL, O Pearl!Naught but a lissom English girl,
So sweet and simple;
Naught but the charm of golden curl,
Of blush and dimple—
Pearl, O Pearl!
Sweet, ah, sweet!
'Tis pleasant lolling at your feet
In summer playtime;
Ah, how the moments quickly fleet
In sunny hay-time—
Sweet, ah, sweet!
Dream, ah, dream!
The sedges sing by swirling stream
A lovely brief song;
The poplars chant in sunny gleam
A lulling leaf-song—
Dream, ah, dream!
Stay, O stay!
We cannot dream all through the day,
Demure and doubtful:
When shines the sun we must make hay,
When lips are poutful—
Stay, O stay!
A NUTSHELL NOVEL.
VOL. I.
A
WINNING wile,A sunny smile,
A feather:
A tiny talk,
A pleasant walk,
Together!
VOL. II.
A little doubt,
A playful pout,
Capricious:
A merry miss,
A stolen kiss,
Delicious!!
VOL. III.
You ask mama,
Consult papa,
With pleasure:
And both repent,
This rash event,
At leisure!!!
THE PINK OF PERFECTION.
With manly step and stalwart stride,
The Minstrel paced the pier at Ryde!
And as he shook those hoary locks,
He gazed upon the pink, pink frocks!
W
ITH frocks and their wearers to dazzle my eyes,Their glories, I scarce dare to sing 'em:
I timidly gaze and I glance in surprise,
At beauties in cambric and gingham!
A Paris I feel in this Garden of Dress,
And, had I to make a selection—
The Apple of Gold, I most freely confess,
I'd give to the Pink of Perfection!
It must not remind you of raspberry ice,
Nor cheek of a milkmaid or cotter;
A lobster-like redness is not at all nice,
Nor feverish glow of the blotter;
It should not recall a Bardolphian nose,
Nor yet a pomegranate bisection—
Throughout the whole garden you'll scarce find a rose,
A match for the Pink of Perfection!
A strawberry crushed, almost smothered in cream,
Nearly matches the colour it may be;
The Jungfrau just flushed with the earliest beam,
The hue of the palm of a baby:
The faint ruddy tone you may see in a shell,
The rose in a young girl's complexion—
All or any of these, it is easy to tell,
Will pass for the Pink of Perfection!
This frock when it's made with most exquisite taste,
And fits like a glove on the shoulder;
With yoke and full pleats and a band at the waist,
Will gladden the passing beholder!
With lace and with buttons of mother o' pearl—
You'll say, on maturest reflection,
The best of all garbs for a pretty young girl,
No doubt is the Pink of Perfection!
Then if such a dress you meet down by the sea,
And find, when you've carefully eyed it,
In make and in fashion 'tis good as can be,
With a neat little figure inside it;
And a sweet little face peeping over a ruff,
Which laughs at your lengthy inspection,
I think you'll admit I have said quite enough—
You've found out the Pink of Perfection!
THE IMPARTIAL.
A BOAT-RACE SKETCH.
I
N sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning—Her lightness of spirit half dashed by the "blues"—
With cheers in her heart for the crew who are winning,
While tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.
If you'll narrowly watch, 'mid the noise and contention,
You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust,
A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentian
Beneath her white collar half carelessly thrust!
The tint of a night in the still summer weather
Her tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold,
While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened together
By dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and gold.
Ah! climax of sweet, girlish, neutral devices—
What smiles for the winners, for losers what sighs!—
She has twined her fair hair with the colours of Isis,
While those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes!
A TRAVELLER'S TARANTELLA.
Written in "Murray's Handbook," while the band in the Piazza San Marco was playing the Tarantella, from Masaniello.
A
LL that the tourist can dream of or hear about,Crowds on your sight as you carelessly peer about,
Quaint water streets you so carefully steer about,
See the Rialto, and Square of St. Mark!
Floating in gondolas, laughing and jollity,
Cyprian wine of the very best quality,
At Florian's caffè—mid fun and frivolity—
Venice delightful from daylight to dark!
Musicians in plenty,
Play "Ecco ridente,"
Or "Com e gentil," in the still summer night;
If you're in a hurry,
Pray look in your Murray—
You'll find his description is perfectly right!
Albergo Reale and English society,
Bric-à-brac shops in their endless variety,
Plenty of pigeons not fearful of pie-ety,
Flutter and peck 'neath the bluest of skies.
Dreaming in Venice? Ah, wildest of fallacies—
Bronzes and sculpture, mosaics and chalices,
Convents and churches, and prisons and palaces,
See as you stand on the grim Bridge of Sighs!
The ballads of Byron,
You'll find will environ
The Doges and dodges and Brides of the Sea.
Don't get in a flurry,
But read it in Murray—
If you don't care about it, then listen to me!
Thousands of thirsty mosquitoes are biting one,
Silvery moonlight is ever delighting one,
Music and mirth every moment inviting one—
Dreary old London we quickly forget!
Shylock and Portia—in short, the whole kit of 'em,
Readers of Shakespeare recall ev'ry bit of 'em;
Troublesome guides, you can never get quit of 'em—
Pictures by Titian and old Tintoret!
The sock and the buskin,
With Rogers and Ruskin,
Are mixed in a muddle with palace and sight!
It may be a worry,
But don't forget Murray,
He'll throw on your darkness some excellent light!
Caffè Florian, Venezia.
IN A MINOR KEY.
I
'M sick of the world and its trouble,I'm weary of pleasures that cloy,
I see through the bright-coloured bubble,
And find no enjoyment in joy.
Is all that we earn worth the earning?
Is all that we gain worth the prize?
Is all that we learn worth the learning?
Is pleasure but pain in disguise?
Is sorrow e'er worth our dejection?
Is fame but a flatterer's spell?
Is love ever worth our affection?
Le jeu vaut-il, donc, la chandelle?
O, where are the eyes that enthralled us,
And where are the lips that we kissed?
Where the syren-like voices that called us,
And where all the chances we missed?
We know not what mortals call pleasure—
For clouded are skies that were blue;
To dross now has melted our treasure,
And false are the hearts that were true.
The flowers we gathered are faded,
The leaves of our laurels are shed;
Our spirit is broken and jaded,
The hopes of our youth are all dead.
We feel life is hopeless and dreary,
Now night has o'ershadowed our day;
Bright fruits of this earth only weary,
They ripen—to fall and decay!
I'm sick of the world and its trouble,
For rest and seclusion I thirst;
I'm tired of the gay tinted bubble,
That brighteneth only to burst!
A SHOWER-SONG.
M
Y heart was light and whole aboard—As I sculled swift by Harleyford
The rain began to patter—
But when I saw in Hurley Lock
That Naiad in a gingham frock,
'Twas quite another matter!
The banks are soft with mud and slosh,
And shiny is each mackintosh,
Each hat and coat well soaken:
My spirits droop, and as I scan
That Beauty in a trim randan,
I fear my heart is broken!
She hath a graceful little head,
Her lips are ripe and round and red,
Her teeth are short and pearly;
And on a rosy sun-kissed cheek
Her dimples play at hide-and-seek,
Within the lock at Hurley!
I strive to make a mental note,
The while she lounges in her boat
Beneath the big umbrella.
I wonder if she's Gwendoline,
Or Gillian, or Geraldine,
Or Sylvia, or Stella?
Is she engaged to Stroke or Bow?
I would they could assure me now
She loves to flirt with others!
Will stalwart Sculls e'er claim her hand?
How gladly would I understand
Her Crew are naught but brothers!
Her hat with lilies is bedight,
Her voice is low, her laugh is light,
Her figure slight and girly.
How cheerfully I'd take a trip,
With such a Pilot for my ship,
And sail away from Hurley!
I wonder if her heart is true?
I know her eyes are peerless blue,
Long lashes downward sweeping;
A snow-white ruff around her throat,
Beneath her pouting petticoat
A little foot out-peeping.
O, is she wooed and is she won,
Or is she very fond of fun?
I make a thousand guesses!
A sweet young face, so full of hope,
A dainty hand on tiller-rope,
And raindrops in her tresses.
Three tiny rosebuds lightly rest
Within the haven of her breast—
Her locks are short and curly.
The sun is gone! Down comes the rain!
I leave my heart cleft well in twain
Within the Lock at Hurley!
Hurley Lock, June.
THE SOCIAL ZODIAC.
JANUARY.
U
PON the Ice, 'tis nice to glide,A merry maiden by your side!
The air is keen, the day is fine,
You think the sport is most divine,
When skimming o'er the frozen tide.
To Miss Chinchilla you confide,
How proud you are to be her guide;
Then try to cut some quaint design
Upon the Ice.
With measured motion, rhythmic stride,
You put on speed and put on side:
You cut the figures Eight and Nine—
And sometimes on your back recline!
Such falls will sometimes come to pride,
Upon the Ice.
FEBRUARY.
S
AINT VALENTINE! The post is late!No letters come—'tis long past Eight!
But on this bright auspicious day
Frivolity holds laughing sway,
And sober people have to wait!
The burdened postmen moan their fate,
This Festival they reprobate;
And often think they'd like to flay
Saint Valentine!
But in these views you'll find Miss Kate
Does not at all participate;
And Beryl, Baby, Minnie, May,
With Gertie, Ethel, Lily, Fay,
Right gleefully commemorate—
Saint Valentine!
MARCH.
O
WIND of March! O biting breeze!It nips the nose and nips the trees;
It whirls with fury down the street,
It makes us flee in quick retreat,
And gives us cold and makes us sneeze!
It makes us cough and choke and wheeze,
With painful back and aching knees;
With dire discomfort 'tis replete,
O Wind of March!
Our hands we're glad enough to squeeze,
In cuffs and muffs and muffatees;
'Tis charged with blinding, cutting sleet,
It spoils our temper, chills our feet,
And brings the Doctor lots of fees—
O Wind of March!
APRIL.
A
N April Day, so fresh and bright—('Twill rain, I'm sure, before the night!)
We've done with Winter blasts unkind—
(Don't leave your mackintosh behind,
'Twould be a fatal oversight!)
In Spring-like garb we'll go bedight—
('Tis sure to rain, just out of spite!
And most perplexing you will find,
An April Day!)
The sky is blue, the clouds are light—
(I trust your Gamp is water-tight!)
To sing and laugh we feel inclined—
(Here comes a storm of rain and wind!
And hail, that's quite enough to blight,
An April Day!)
MAY.
A
PRIVATE View? 'Tis plain to you,'Tis neither "private" nor a "view"!
And yet for tickets people rush,
To mingle in the well-dressed crush,
And come and wonder who is who.
The beauties, poets, actors, too,
With patrons, painters—not a few,
Are elements that help to flush
A Private View.
The pictures, you can't hope to do;
You're angered by the "precious" crew,
And pallid maids who flop and gush.
While carping critics who cry "Tush!"
And wildly wrangle, make you rue
A Private View.
JUNE.
I
N Rotten Row, 'tis nice, you know,To see the tide of Fashion flow!
Though hopeless cynics carp and croon—
I do not care one macaroon—
But love to watch the passing show!
You'll find it anything but slow,
To laugh and chaff with those you know;
And pleasant then to sit at noon,
In Rotten Row!
When Summer breezes whisper low,
And countless riders come and go;
Beneath the trees in leafy June,
I love to sit and muse and moon—
While beauties canter to and fro—
In Rotten Row!
JULY.
O
N Henley Bridge, in sweet July,A gentle breeze, a cloudless sky!
Indeed it is a pleasant place,
To watch the oarsmen go the pace,
As gasping crowds go roaring by.
And O, what dainty maids you spy,
What tasteful toilets you descry,
What symphonies in frills and lace,
On Henley Bridge!
But if you find a luncheon nigh—
A mayonnaise, a toothsome pie—
The chance you'll hasten to embrace!
You'll soon forget about the Race,
And take your Giesler cool and dry—
On Henley Bridge!
AUGUST.
B
ESIDE the Sea, upon the strandThe sun is hot, the day is grand:
I think you will agree with me,
Upon the shore 'tis nice to be,
Amid the shingle and the sand.
Your hands get brown, your face is tanned,
You bathe or noddle to the band;
Or slowly ride a solemn "gee"
Beside the Sea.
You pace the pier, you idle and
The offing never leave unscanned:
And study, 'neath some grateful lee,
The "blue, the fresh, the ever free"!
The air is pure, your lungs expand,
Beside the Sea!
SEPTEMBER.
A
FOREIGN Tour? I apprehendA hand-bag I should recommend;
A roll of useful notes from Coutts,
A pocketful of good cheroots,
And Murray for your faithful friend.
Some French, on which you can depend,
A chosen chum, you can't offend;
Are things to make—with tourist-suits—
A Foreign Tour.
You'll visit "lions" without end;
And all the snowy peaks ascend;
With alpenstocks and hob-nailed boots:
Or ride on mules—the sullen brutes—
There's lots of sport, if you intend
A Foreign Tour!
OCTOBER.
O
NCE more at Home! We've ploughed the main,We've gone by diligence and train;
Endured the oft-repeated snub,
Of insolent official cub—
In Switzerland, in France, and Spain.
For weeks we've struggled, all in vain,
Some toilet comforts to obtain;
But now we hail our roomy "tub"
Once more at Home.
Though back we come to fog and rain
And chills and bills, we don't complain!
We've heaps of friends, a quiet "rub,"
A pleasant dinner at the Club—
True happiness we now regain,
Once more at Home!
NOVEMBER.
A
LONDON Fog, 'tis always hereAt this inclement time of year!
When people hang themselves or drown,
And Nature wears her blackest frown,
While all the world is dull and drear.
All form and colour disappear
Within this filthy atmosphere:
'Tis sometimes yellow, sometimes brown,
A London Fog!
It chokes our lungs, our heads feel queer,
We cannot see, can scarcely hear:
So when this murky pall drops down—
Though dearly loving London town—
We feel we cannot quite revere
A London Fog!