I like the _dolce far niente_;
I love the eyes of peerless blue,
And nameless grace of Sweet-and-Twenty!
I've lunched with dainty Violet
Off nectarines and fried _agoni_;
And now I'll smoke a cigarette,
In this BalcOny.
I do not think I care to talk,
I am not up to much exertion;
I'm not inclined to ride or walk,
I loathe the very word excursion!
Now shall I heated effort make,
And climb the hill to Serbelloni?
I'd rather gaze upon the lake--
From this BalcOny.
Or rather gaze on Violet,
This sunny day in sweet September:
Her eyes I never can forget,
Her voice I always shall remember!
P'r'aps lazy lovers oft are slow--
I whispered _con espressione_--
And what I _meant_ to say I know,
In this BalcOny!
Alas! that _Murray_ dropped by Loo,
Mama awakens in a minute!
Papa has read his paper through,
And finds, of course, there's nothing in it!
And Tom-boy Ten is full of fun,
She's off somewhere to ride a pony,
And Vi has gone! So fades the sun--
From this BalcOny!
A RIVERAIN RHYME.
BESIDE the river in the rain--
The sopping sky is leaden grey--
I watch the drops run down the pane!
Assuming the Tapleyan vein--
I sit and drone a dismal lay--
Beside the river in the rain!
With pluvial patter for refrain;
I've smoked the very blackest clay;
I watch the drops run down the pane.
I've gazed upon big fishes slain,
That on the walls make brave display,
Beside the river in the rain.
It will not clear, 'tis very plain,
The rain will last throughout the day--
I watch the drops run down the pane.
I almost feel my boundless brain
At last shows signs of giving way;
Beside the river in the rain.
O, never will I stop again--
No more will I attempt to stay,
Beside the river in the rain,
To watch the drops run down the pane!
THE LITTLE REBEL.
PRINCESS of pretty pets,
Tomboy in trouserettes;
Eyes are like violets--
Gleefully glancing!
Skin, like an otter sleek,
Nose, like a baby-Greek,
Sweet little dimple-cheek--
Merrily dancing!
Lark-like her song it trills,
Over the dale and hills,
Hark how her laughter thrills!
Joyously joking.
Yet, should she feel inclined,
I fancy you will find,
She, like all womankind,
Oft is provoking!
Often she stands on chairs,
Sometimes she unawares
Slyly creeps up the stairs,
Secretly hiding:
Then will this merry maid--
She is of nought afraid--
Come down the balustrade,
Saucily sliding!
Books she abominates,
But see her go on skates,
And over five-barred gates
Fearlessly scramble!
Climbing up apple-trees,
Barking her supple knees,
Flouting mama's decrees--
Out for a ramble.
Now she is good as gold,
Then she is pert and bold,
Minds not what she is told,
Carelessly tripping.
She is an April miss,
Bounding to grief from bliss,
Often she has a kiss--
Sometimes a whipping!
Naughty but best of girls,
Through life she gaily twirls,
Shaking her sunny curls--
Careless and joyful.
Ev'ry one on her dotes,
Carolling merry notes,
Pet in short petticoats--
Truly tomboyful!
CANOEBIAL BLISS.
_My Pegasus won't bear a bridle,
A bit, or a saddle, or shoe:
I'm doing my best to be idle,
And sing from my bass-wood canoe!_
O, SUMMER is sweet, and its sky is so blue--
The days are so long, and my heart is so light,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!
Where am I? No matter! It's nothing to you--
The breeze is so pleasant, the sun is so bright--
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!
I glory in thinking there's nothing to do.
I moon and I ponder from morn until night,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!
My face and my hands are of tropical hue.
In spotless white flannel my limbs are bedight.
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!
But O, it is pleasant to dream the day through,
Half-hidden by rushes, and well out of sight,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!
I crush the white lilies, 'tis almost "too too;"
I dream to the song of the dragon-flies' flight--
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue!
Somewhere on the Thames, I can't give you a clue,
Be able to find me, you possibly might,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!
And if you are pleasant, and I'm in the cue,
Through azurine smoke you may hear me recite--
O, Summer is sweet, and its sky is so blue,
When drifting about in my bass-wood canoe!
ROSIE.
DRAWN BY LEECH.
DOWN on the sands there strolls a merry maid,
Aglow with ruddy health and gladsome glee;
She breasts the breezes of the summer sea,
And lets each zephyr trifle with each braid;
Laughs gaily as her petticoats evade
Her girlish grasp and wildly flutter free,
As, bending to some boisterous decree,
The neatest foot and ankle are displayed.
Her youthful rounded figure you may trace
Half pouting, as rude Boreas unfurls
A wealth of snowy frillery and lace,
A glory of soft golden rippled curls.
Comes, blushing with a rare unconscious grace,
The bonniest of England's bonny girls!
SKINDLE'S IN OCTOBER.
OCTOBER is the time of year;
For no regattas interfere,
The river then is fairly clear
Of steaming "spindles,"
You then have space to moor your punt,
You then can get a room in front
Of Skindle's.
When Taplow Woods are russet-red,
When half the poplar-leaves are shed,
When silence reigns at Maidenhead,
And autumn dwindles,
'Tis good to lounge upon that lawn,
Though beauties of last June are gone
From Skindle's.
We toiled in June all down to Bray,
And yarns we spun for Mab and May;
O, who would think such girls as they
Would turn out swindles?
But _now_ we toil and spin for jack,
And in the evening we get back
To Skindle's.
And after dinner--passing praise--
'Tis sweet to meditate and laze,
To watch the ruddy logs ablaze;
And as one kindles
The big post-prandial cigar,
My friend, be thankful that we are
At Skindle's.
IN MY EASY CHAIR.
'TIS simply detestable weather!
At home I'm determined to stay;
A fortune I've spent in shoe-leather,
And ruined three hats ev'ry day!
Umbrellas I've borrowed and broken,
And angered their owners no doubt:
These things I consider a token,
'Tis not the least use to go out!
But let the weather be foul or fair,
I'll sit and smile in my Easy Chair!
The morning's uncertain and hazy--
I can't be quite sure of the time--
I'm feeling exhausted and lazy,
Not equal to reason or rhyme!
While streets still are muddy and sloppy,
While bitter the easterly breeze,
I'll maunder and nod like a poppy,
And take forty winks at mine ease!
My dreams are pleasant, so _I_ don't care.
I'll sit and snooze in my Easy Chair!
There's nothing of note in the papers,
There's nothing to do or to say:
We suffer extremely from "vapours"--
The fog and the damp of each day.
Though cities be frozen or flooded,
'Tis useless to fume or to fret;
Though friends are bespattered and mudded--
I'll smoke a serene cigarette!
And all the burdens I have to bear,
I'll smoke away in my Easy Chair!
Within it is snug and quiescent,
Without it persistently pours;
My chair is well-cushioned and pleasant,
Though life's full of angles and bores!
My room is deliciously torrid,
By frost or by rain I'm unvext;
The world is decidedly horrid--
So call me the month after next!
The world may roll and may tear its hair,
I'll roll and laugh in my Easy Chair!
BLANKTON WEIR.
'TIS a queer old pile of timbers, all gnarled and rough and green,
Both moss-o'ergrown and weed-covered, and jaggèd too, I ween!
'Tis battered and 'tis spattered, all worn and knocked about,
Beclamped with rusty rivets, and bepatched with timbers stout;
A tottering, trembling structure, enshrining memories dear,
This weather-beaten barrier, this quaint old Blankton Weir.
While leaning on those withered rails, what feelings oft come back,
As I watch the white foam sparkling and note the current's track;
What crowds of fleeting fancies come dancing through my brain!
And the good old days of Blankton, I live them o'er again;
What hopes and fears, gay smiles, sad tears, seem mirrored in the
mere,
While looking on its glassy face by tell-tale Blankton Weir!
I've seen it basking 'neath the rays of summer's golden glow,
And when sweetly by the moonlight, silver ripples ebb and flow;
When Nature starts in spring-time, awakening into life;
When autumn leaves are falling, and the yellow corn is rife;
'Mid the rime and sleet of winter, all through the live-long year,
I've watched the water rushing through this tide-worn Blankton Weir.
And I mind me of one even, so calm and clear and bright,
What songs we sang--whose voices rang--that lovely summer night.
Where are the hearty voices now who trolled those good old lays?
And where the silvery laughter that rang in bygone days?
Come back, that night of long ago! Come back, the moonlight clear!
When hearts beat light, and eyes were bright, about old Blankton Weir.
Was ever indolence so sweet, were ever days so fine,
As when we lounged in that old punt and played with rod and line?
'Tis true few fish we caught there, but the good old ale we quaffed,
As we chatted, too, and smoked there, and idled, dreamed, and laughed:
Then thought we only of to-day, of morrow had no fear,
For sorrow scarce had tinged the stream that flowed through
Blankton Weir.
Those dreamy August afternoons, when in our skiff we lay,
To hear the current murmuring as slow it swirled away;
The plaintive hum of dragon-fly, the old weir's plash and roar,
While _Some-one's_ gentle voice, too, seems whispering there once
more;
Come back, those days of love and trust, those times of hope and fear,
When girls were girls, and hearts were hearts, about old Blankton Weir!
Those brilliant sunny mornings when we tumbled out of bed,
And hurried on a few rough clothes, and to the river sped!
What laughing joyaunce hung about those merry days agone,
We clove the rushing current at the early flush of dawn!
Tremendous headers took we in the waters bright and clear,
And splashed and dashed, and dived and swam, just off old
Blankton Weir.
Then that pleasant picnic-party, when all the girls were there,
In pretty morning dresses and with freshly-braided hair;
Fair Annie, with those deep-blue eyes, and rosy, laughing Nell,
Dark Helen, sunny Amy, and the stately Isobel;
Ah! Lizzie, 'twas but yesterday--at least 'twould so appear--
We plighted vows of constancy, not far from Blankton Weir.
Those flashing eyes, those brave true hearts, are gone, and few remain
To mourn the loss of sunny hours that ne'er come back again:
Some married are--ah! me, how changed--for they will think no more
Of how they joined our chorus there, or helped to pull the oar:
One gentle voice is hushed for aye--we miss a voice so dear--
Who cheered along with evensong our path by Blankton Weir.
Amid the whirl of weary life--I hear it o'er and o'er,
That plaintive well-loved lullaby--the old weir's distant roar:
It gilds the cloud of daily toil with sunshine's fitful gleams,
It breaks upon my slumber, and I hear it in my dreams:
Like music of the good old times, it strikes upon mine ear--
If there's an air can banish care, 'tis that of Blankton Weir!
I know the river's rushing, but it rushes not for me,
I feel the morning blushing, though I am not there to see;
For younger hearts now live and love where once we used to dwell,
And others laugh, and dream, and sing, in spots we loved so well;
Their motto "_Carpe diem_"--'twas ours for many a year--
As show these rhymes of sunny times about old Blankton Weir.
DIFFERENT VIEWS.
A CHRISTMAS DUET.
O, CHRISTMAS comes but once a year!
(_And even that is once too many;_)
Hurrah for all its right good cheer!
(_I wish I had my share of any!_)
What flavour of the good old times!
(_What hopeless and egregious folly!_)
What evergreens and merry chimes!
(_What prickles ever lurk in holly!_)
Indeed it is a merry time;
(_But O! those countless Christmas numbers!_)
For now we see the pantomime,
(_And now the waits disturb our slumbers._)
We've kisses 'neath the mistletoe--
(_I hate such rough, unseemly capers!_)
And hearty welcomes, frost and snow;
(_Yes, in the illustrated papers._)
Around the groaning Christmas board,
(_Which never equals expectations,_)
Where old and young are in accord--
(_I hate the most of my relations!_)
I view the turkey with delight,
(_A tough old bird beyond all question!_)
The blazing pudding--what a sight!
(_'Tis concentrated indigestion!_)
Laugh on, ye merry girls and boys!
(_Each year the Christmas boxes strengthen,_)
Each year brings with it countless joys;
(_The Christmas bills each year they lengthen._)
To all we pledge the brimming glass!
(_What days of gorging and unreason!_)
Too quick such merry moments pass--
(_Why can't we skip the "festive season"?_)
TWO NAUGHTY GIRLS.
A SCULLER'S SKETCH.
AS I go slowly drifting by,
Two lazy lasses I espy;
Two pretty pets who lounge and moon,
Who dream and take their ease,
And chatter through the afternoon,
Beneath the trees.
The one is Beatie, t'other Bell,
No pow'r on earth will make me tell
The surname of each lovely flow'r--
This pair of busy B's,
Who _don't_ improve each shining hour,
Beneath the trees!
Ah! why should one sweet damsel frown,
And droop her pretty eyelids down?
Or quickly hush her merry notes,
And clasp her pliant knees?
A pouting pet in petticoats,
Beneath the trees!
Has Bell at Beatie dared to sneer,
Or Beatie chanced at Bell to jeer?
Has either vented girlish spite,
Because she likes to tease?
Or loves, like dogs, to bark and bite,
Beneath the trees!
Has either called the other "flirt"?
Does Bell object to Beatie's skirt?
Or Bella's sweet forget-me-nots,
Miss Beatrix displease?--
I'd like to read them Doctor Watts,
Beneath the trees.
I drift and leave each dainty maid,
Still sweet and sulky in the shade,
With all their sunny laughing curls
A-flutter in the breeze:
Two nice but very naughty girls,
Beneath the trees!
I said unto myself, Ha! ha!
My dears, if I were your mama,
Most quickly I'd pack off to bed
Two naughty busy B's--
Who quarrel and make eyelids red,
Beneath the trees!
COULEUR DE ROSE.
A SIX MONTHS' COURTSHIP.
HER soft sables, you must know,
Kept off winter's frost and snow,
And the cruel wind did blow
When we met:
The demurest little nun,
Though she'd sometimes change in fun,
Like a snowflake in the sun,--
Little pet!
Pray what meant those frequent sighs,
When those fathomless brown eyes
Sometimes gazed with glad surprise
Into mine?
It was joy to be alone,
With my arm around her zone,
And to claim her for my own
Valentine!
'Fore the romping wind of March
Was she bending like a larch,
As her glance seemed yet more arch
Through her curls;
Came in view the ankles neat,
Were revealed the dainty feet,
And the _chaussure_ of my sweet
Girl of girls!
Ah! my brightest fay of fays
Was most fickle in her ways,
In chameleon April days--
Sun and rain!
She would sometimes be put out,
She would laugh or cry and pout;
Smiling through her tears in doubt,
Joy and pain!
But in May so freshly fair
She would cull its blossoms rare,
Just to twine them in her hair--
Gay and wild:
A sweet pæan of perfume,
A gay sunny song of bloom,
She would chase away all bloom--
Laughing child!
Ah! her cheek will shame the rose,
With the tint that comes and goes,
And more radiantly glows,
When it's prest!
Whilst her loving eyes flash bright,
With a sweet and sparkling light,
And white roses scarce look white
In her breast!
In the balmy summer time,
With gay roses in their prime,
No one deems it is a crime
Then to "spoon"!
Ah! how quick the time then sped,
Now I wonder what we said,
'Neath the roses white and red--
Once in June?
O! when summer skies were blue,
And we fancied hearts were true,
While the long day loving through--
Who'd suppose?
Our grand castles built in Spain,
Or that love could ever wane,
And its fragrance but remain,
Like the rose?
IN STRAWBERRY TIME.
HOT, 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._
MY 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.
THE 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.
ONE 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.
AWAY 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.
PEARL, 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!