In Market-place or Public Way

He read his ode or sang his lay,

As was the custom of the day,

But none suggested

A Laurel Wreath or Crown of Bay:

Instead, one morn, to his dismay,

While spouting forth a Tragic Play,

He was arrested.

In Irons he was led away,

And, by a Justice stern and gray,

For blocking up the Public Way

He was indicted.

Then, since he had nowith to pay

The Fine (a trifle anyway),

To leave the town without delay

He was invited.

There was no choice but to obey—

He left the town at break of day,

Yet still his heart was brave and gay;

Fate could not queer him.

For was it not the month of May,

Were there not flowers beside the way,

And little lambs to sport and play,

And birds to cheer him?

He journeyed on for many a day;

The Peasants gave him Curds and Whey;

For aught I know the Fairies may

Some Food have found him.

At night he slept beneath a Bay

Or Laurel Tree, and, I dare say,

Dreamed he was Laureate, and they

Were twined around him.

Indeed, his only trouble lay

In this, that tho’ his spirits gay

And gentle Heart and winning way

Charmed and delighted

All whom he met, yet, strange to say,

To hear his verses none would stay—

Even the Peasants ran away

When he recited.

But he was not the sort that say,

“Oh, woe is mine—alack-a-day!”

He lived for Hope, and in some way

Was bound to find it.

“What matter! Let them go,” he’d say;

“Each to his taste—henceforth I’ll play

And sing to Birds alone, for they

Don’t seem to mind it.”

And so he journeyed many a day,

Till now at last his darkening way

Lies thro’ a forest dim and gray;

Yet, nothing daunted,

Though hoary branches bar the way,

And twisted roots his steps betray,

And ghostly voices seem to say

The place is haunted.

Singing a Carol blithe and gay,

He presses on, nor does he stay,

Until at last the light of day

His sight surprises.

And now a little winding way

Leads, through a meadow pink with May,

To where, not half a mile away,

A Palace rises.

He wandered on, his thoughts astray,

Framing a little Roundelay

And weaving garlands of the May

(For whom not guessing),

Until before him suddenly

There loomed a gateway grim and gray,

Whose dark doors yielded to the sway

Of his light pressing.

And lo! a garden gleaming, gay

With flowers in dazzling array,

And fountains flashing silver spray,

And bowers shady;

And on an emerald bank there lay

A creature fairer than the day,

Yet sadder than a moonlight ray—

A wondrous lady.

Abashed the Poet turned away,

When a low voice entreated, “Stay!

Read me that little Roundelay

I heard you singing.”

It was as though upon him lay

A spell that forced him to obey,

And he recited it straightway

In voice clear ringing.

A dreamy, languid, far-away

Expression dims her eyes as they,

Like violets at droop of day,

Are closing—closing.

The Poet ends his Roundelay,

And turns to hear what she may say,

And finds to his complete dismay

The Princess dozing.

Then rose a cry: “She sleeps! Hurray!

The Princess sleeps! Oh, joyful day!

The spell is broken—Rise, I pray,

Oh, sweet song-maker.”

’Twas the King spoke, “Arise, I pray:

I make you Laureate this day;

My daughter’s hand, too, by the way,

Is yours—don’t wake her.”

Sibyl—Why, Bob, it’s you! They got your name all wrong.

I’m sorry that I made you wait so long.

Bob—Only six minutes by my watch—it’s true

A minute seems a year, awaiting you!

But Time is merciful and I rejoice

That I am still alive to hear your voice.

Sibyl—A very pretty speech, for you, indeed.

But what extenuation can you plead

For waking ladies at the break of day

From peaceful slumbers, sir!

Bob— Oh, come, I say!

It’s half past ten!

Sibyl— Well, it was nearly three

Before I got to bed!

Bob— Good gracious me!

I’m sure I’d no idea it was so late.

Why, I was riding in the Park at eight

And looked for you. I own I felt abused;

Last night you said——

Sibyl— I beg to be excused

From keeping foolish promises, when made

At two A.M., by moonlight. I’m afraid

My memory’s no better than a sieve.

So you expected me? The Lord forgive

Your trusting soul!

Bob— It is His métier!

Sibyl—Don’t be outrageous, or I’ll run away.

Bob—Ah, no; don’t go. I will be good, I swear!

’Twas a quotation, Heine, or Voltaire,

Or some fool cynic fellow. By the way,

If you have nothing on, what do you say

To breakfasting with Peg and me at noon

At the Casino?

Sibyl— Well, that’s rather soon;

I can’t be ready for an hour or more.

Bob—Come as you are, you know that I adore

Your ladyship in any sort of gown;

Besides, there’s not another soul in town.

Come as you are; there’ll only be we three.

Sibyl—Well, I like that! It’s fortunate for me

This is a telephone and not that new

Invention one can talk and see through, too!

What’s that you said?

Bob— I didn’t speak at all

I only thought.

Sibyl— Well, don’t! Suppose we call

The breakfast half past one instead of noon?

Bob (joyously)—

Then you will come?

Sibyl— I swear!

Bob— Not by the moon?

Sibyl (laughing)—

No, you may count on me. Now I must fly.

One-thirty—don’t forget—Good-by!

Bob— Good-by!

(They ring off.)

What means your empty quiver?

Did heart of some coquette

Your golden arrows shiver?

Or did you, boy, upset

Your darts in Lethe’s river,

Or break them in a pet?

What is it you’re concealing,

My patience to annoy?

A heart you have been stealing,

Or some such foolish toy?

Come, now—no double-dealing!

Out with it—Cupid, boy!

“I have,” quoth Cupid, shyly,

“A thing wherewith to hew

Cold hearts” (he hinted slyly

That such a heart I knew).

“’Tis recommended highly—

An ice-pick—what say you?”

Gravely I shake my finger

At Cupid—“’Tis indeed

The very thing to bring her

To reason, boy, so speed!

Fly, Cupid! Do not linger—

Jove grant you may succeed!”

One tyme a Youthe of faire degree

Didde looke upon a Mayde. Ah me,

She was as coye as anye flow’r,

She stole hys harte in thatte sayme how’r.

Alle vainlie he to Love didde calle,

Ye blinde Godde holp hym notte atte alle.

To Bishop Valentine thenne hies

Ye Youthe, ye Damosel likewyse,

Ande each ’gan tell hys tayle of griefe.

Each sayd ye other was ye thiefe.

“Zounds!” cried ye Sainte, “this brawle must cease.

I’ll binde ye bothe to keepe ye peace.”

Whereat ye twain in nowyse loath,

“Pray then wyth one bond binde us bothe.”

Loude laughed ye Sainte, “Perdi! ’Tis done!”

And made ye Youthe and Mayden one.

Lady, anent this suit of mine

In search of precedents, I waded

Through ancient lore, and found this fine

Old Judgment, in a parchment faded.

If you will ponder the last line

And be by wise example aided,

We, too, will make Saint Valentine

Our Judge, and—compromise, as they did.

Here’s to the Bachelor Girl

Who fain her charms would cloister.

She is a precious pearl

That will not leave the oyster.

She is a proud sweet-pea

That scorns to be a vine,

And lean upon a tree

Or round a stick entwine.

“What! lean upon a stick!

Oh, no! I’m not that sort—

I will grow branches thick

And be my own support!”

Beware, O pearl of price,

Lest you be cast to swine;

O proud sweet-pea, think twice

Ere you refuse to twine!

O Bachelor Girl, we drink

Confusion to your plan;

Beware, lest Fate shall link

You to a Spinster Man!

O change, ere ’tis too late,

The choker tall and silly,

The tweeds—the hat we hate,

For something soft and frilly!

Take off the stockings blue,

(We will avert our gaze),

Then will we drink to you

Long life—and happy days!

We’ve drunk to everything we know,

From Lang Syne to The Ladies;

Now, one more Toast before we go—

Mephisto, Prince of Hades!

When sober we are wont, ’tis true,

To bury, not to praise him;

But let us give the De’il his due,

And toast him while we raise him.

For tho’ his company we’re taught

To shun, there’s no denying

Mephisto never yet was caught

Beneath false colors flying.

He wears his coat and plume of red

With candor so unswerving

We must applaud, although ’tis said

He took some points from Irving.

Think of the Stage, think of the Church,

Without their villain ruddy,

If Old Nick left them in the lurch

Without an understudy!

As well “Othello” played without

The Gentleman of Color,

Or “Hamlet” with the Prince left out:

Could anything be duller?

A world from all temptation free

Would sadly lack in flavor;

And what would Untried Virtue be

But Salt without its savor?

To pawn his soul the sinner goes

More than half-way to meet him,

Yet when Mephisto would foreclose

He does his best to cheat him.

In Church to-day we sound his Knell,

To-morrow at a revel

We fall to raising him—and—well,

We treat him like the Devil.

So let us toast our Foe of Foes,

Long may we live to rout him.

Here’s to Mephisto! Goodness knows

What would we do without him.

And, good Mephisto, do not spurn

Our Toast with mocking laughter,

Nor yet the compliment return—

By Toasting us hereafter!

Beauty she had and Wealth untold,

Besides a Fabulous Amount

Of Jewels rare and Crowns of Gold,

And Suitors more than she could count.

Such Suitors! Tho’ her Fingers Fair

Had been as leaves upon the Trees

They still were far too few to wear

The Rings they offered, on their Knees.

In Coaches, Caravans, and Ships

The Suitors came in Flocks untold,

Happy to kiss her Finger-tips

And beg from her a Lock of Gold.

For tho’ she seemed to Cupid’s Dart

Impervious, and would not share

The smallest atom of her Heart,

She was most lavish with her Hair.

To all who craved the Golden Boon

She gave, until one Night her Maid

Exclaimed, “Alas! Your Highness soon

Will not have Hair enough to braid!”

Next day the Court was in a state,

The usual audience was refused,

A Notice hung upon the Gate—

“The Princess begs to be Excused.”

Daily the Throng of Suitors grew

And clamored madly at the door,

Until at length they formed a queue

Extending for a mile or more.

The Chancellor was in despair.

“Princess, it comes to this,” he said,

“That either you must lose your hair

Or I must surely lose my head!”

The Princess turned away her face.

“Oh, dear,” she cried, “this grieves me sore;

It will be hard to fill your place—

You were a first-rate Chancellor!

“But do not grieve—I have a plan

To keep your head and save my Pride.”

Then to the marble gate she ran,

Unloosed her hair, stepped forth, and cried:

“Brave Suitors, look upon this Gold,

This mint of Curls—lo, I present

A share to each of you—behold

My Notes of Curl—at five per cent!”

A cheer rose from a Thousand Throats;

The panic passed—and months flew by.

The Princess issued Tons of Notes,

When lo!—a Bolt from out the Sky—

A message came, brought by a Churl:

“Pont Morgan, Sultan of Peru,

Has bought up all your Notes of Curl,

And all your Notes are falling Due!”

The Princess grew distraught with fears

By Day. At night she tossed in Bed,

Dreaming an Awful Pair of Shears

Hung by a Hair above her Head.

At last the Fatal Morning came,

And with it came Pont Morgan, too,

With Awful Shears to press his claim,

And an Enormous Retinue.

“The Law is Just!” the People cried;

“And She the Penalty must pay!”

The Shears their Awful Jaws spread wide,

When suddenly a Voice cried, “Stay!”

An Unknown Damsel, Pale and Proud,

And clad in Silken Cap and Gown,

Strode swiftly through the gaping crowd,

And struck the Awful Scissors down.

“Beware!” she cried, “Proud Sultan, ere

You touch a Hair of that Fair Head;

For know you not that Every Hair

Is numbered—as the Prophet said?

“Show me the Notes—see, here is writ

A number plain across each Bond,

And you may only draw for it

The numbered Hair to correspond.

“So pause, Pont Morgan, ere you draw

A Single Hair from that Gold Head;

If it be wrong—then by the Law

Your Life and Lands are forfeited!”

“Hurray! Hurray! The Maid is Right!”

The People cried with mad uproar.

The Sultan turned a deadly white,

And fell in Fits upon the Floor.

“O Lady, whosoe’er you be,

Claim what you will in all my Land!”

The Princess cried. “I am,” said he,

“Not Maid, but Man—I claim your Hand.”

“’Tis yours! Right gladly will I be

Your Bride—for in Creation’s Plan

I never dreamed to find,” said she,

“A Portia’s Logic in a Man!”

It comes! The monster rearing high,

Against the lurid western sky,

Its horrid, hissing Hydrant Heads,

While o’er the shuddering land it sheds

A dreary pall of waste and woe

And chilling streams of H₂O.

Now saints defend us, one and all,

And most especially Saint Paul,

Thou patron saint of Honest Fighting

And Common Sense and Letterwriting,

Who one time, for his “stomach’s sake,”

Bade Timothy the wine cup take;

Stay now this Water Fiend’s advance

And save thy servant Temperance,

Ere Abstinence, that glum wet-nurse

Of Dire Dyspepsia, Chills, and worse,

Blow out the Lights of Love and Mirth,

And so asphyxiate the Earth.

You boast no “Tree,”

No painted shell your Natal Cell,

Your Pedigree,

Neatly displayed, reads simply, “Made

In Germany.”

What do I care

Tho’ to fresh seed you pay no heed—

Since on Plain Air

You gayly feast? Of that at least

I have to spare.

You do not pour

From your wide bill a gladsome trill,

Thanks be, therefore!

The best of tune, repeated, soon

Becomes a bore!

You simply stare

When I exclaim “Wilhelm” (your name);

You do not care

For William Hohenzollern, tho’

His name you bear.

What would you say

If William the Unsilent, he

Should come your way?

And fume, and pout, and storm—and shout,

“Lèse-Majesté!”

’Twould vex his pride

To see you hold that Gift of Gold

To him denied—

“Silence,” the sole and only rôle

He has not tried.

Fear not his grim,

Imperial ire; no torture dire,

No dungeon dim,

Your fate shall be: This land is free—

At least from him.

Wee saffron sage,

Pipe all day long your silent song

While by your cage,

Musing, I let my soul forget

The Noisy Age.

Now o’er the figures dark I see

A hand which moves relentlessly,

Remorseless, black.

The hand of Time—and through me flit

The Solemn words by Omar writ,

“Not all your piety nor wit

Can lure it back.”

She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose

Like petals of a pearly rose

After the rain.

And as she notes, with startled eye,

The Station Clock, I hear her cry,

“It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my!

I’ve missed my train.”