Alack for human loveliness
And for its little span!
Where's Belinda? Here, quite fresh,
Are still her gown and fan!
ARTHUR KETCHUM.
_Williams Literary Monthly._
~Confession and Avoidance.~
They say that you're a flirt at best,
And warn me to beware: your glances
Would make, they say, a treach'rous test
By which to gauge a fellow's chances.
And yet--I love you so! a throng
Of passions bid me speak to-day.
Ah! darling, tell me they are wrong!
Are you as heartless as they say?
Am I? well, so I have been told,
Though never yet have I confessed it;
But you, sir, seem so very bold
That I--well, I admit you've guessed it.
Alas! 'tis true I'm heartless; yes,
They're right, but only right in part;
The reason, dear, is--can't you guess?
Because--because you have my heart.
JOHN ALAN HAMILTON.
_Cornell Magazine._
~Clarissa Laughs.~
Clarissa laughs. I plead in vain,
She hears my suit with sweet disdain,
When I remind her--speaking low--
That once she did not flout me so,
She asks me--do I think 'twill rain?
Then when in anger I am fain
To leave her, swear I've naught to gain
By staying, save th'increase of woe,
Clarissa laughs.
Yet when I beg of her to deign
To answer, give it joy or pain,
She smiles. So then I cannot go,
For with her smiles my love doth grow.
Yet when I press my suit again,
Clarissa laughs.
RUTH PARSONS MILNE.
_Smith College Monthly_.
~'Mid the Roses.~
'Mid the roses she is standing,
In her garden, waiting there;
Roses all about her glowing,
Roses shining in her hair.
May I, dare I, ask the question
Which my heart has asked before?
Then I falter, "Can you love me,
Darling?" I can say no more.
Now the petals fall more slowly:
One has lodged upon her dress;
Now her eyes she raises gently;
Meeting mine, they answer "Yes."
F.T. GEROULD.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly_.
~A Society Martyr.~
Rustling billows of silk 'neath the foam of old lace,
A half-languid smile upon each listless face,--
A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,--
A medley of modern and Grecian maids.
Such clatter and clink
One scarcely can think
Till he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,--
For how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?
Fair Phyllis's gold lashes demurely cast down,
Her face in sweet doubt 'twixt a smile and a frown,--
A venturesome rosebud o'ertopping the rest
Now lies all a-quiver upon her white breast,
The curves of her neck
Man's vow often wreck,--
She has the whole world at her call and her beck.
So how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such variant emotions at afternoon teas?
Behind sheltering palms, safe from gossips' sharp gaze,
Is acted in mime one of life's dearest plays,--
Sweet Bessie's brown eyes raised beseechingly up,
Her lips just released from the kiss of her cup,
And Fred, I much fear,
From small sounds that I hear,
Is as bold as the rim of her cup,--and as near,--
And how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such sights and such sounds at our afternoon teas?
Shrewd maters watch Phyllis and Bessie and Fred,--
Each smile and each look and each toss of the head,--
And wonder and ponder and figure and scheme,
While fortune and fashion 'gainst love tip the beam.
For Bessie's dark locks
And Phyllis's smart frocks
Are but snares to entrap the society fox.
Pray, how can a bachelor be at his ease
With such artful devices at afternoon teas?
JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY.
_Brown Magazine_.
~O Mores!~
Cupid's bow is lying broken,
Fallen on the ground,
And his arrows all with blunted
Points are strewn around.
For to reach our modern hearts
Powerless are the blind god's darts,
From his rosy shoulders stripped;
Since, to pierce the breasts so cold,
Shafts must always be of gold,
Arrows must be diamond-tipped.
ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS.
_Brunonian._
~Which?~
Blonde or brunette? Shall Ethel fair,
My winter girl, with golden hair,
Or Maud, whose dark brown eyes bewitch,--
My summer girl,--now govern?
Which?
Shall cold Bostonianism rule?
Shall Love teach Browning in his school?
Or shall coy glances, passion-rich,
Compel my fond allegiance?
Which?
And yet the solving's really clear.
For winter's gone and summer's here.
I want no statue in a niche,
So Cupid says, "Let Maud be
'Which!'"
W.C. NICHOLS.
_Harvard Lampoon._
~Then and Now.~
When first we met she was three feet high,
And three, I think, was her age as well,
A touch of the heaven was in her eye;
I cannot say she was very shy,
(As you'll see by her actions by and by),
But the way I behaved I blush to tell.
We met at a party, on the stair;
She was decked in ribbons and silk galore,
She smiled with a most bewitching air,
And then, I'm afraid, I pulled her hair.
You know you can't expect savoir-faire
Of a cavalier of the age of four!
She only laughed with her subtle charm,
And took it more sweetly than you'd have believed,
But later she really took alarm--
When she wanted to kiss me I pinched her arm,
And she ran away to escape from harm;
At which, no doubt, I was much relieved.
She did not offer to kiss again;
I saw her go off with another beau.
She pretended to hold up her ten-inch train,
And whispered low to her new-found swain.
I was eating ice-cream with might and main,--
And that was some seventeen years ago.
I see her to-night on the winding stair,
She replies with a smile to my sober bow;
The palms lean lovingly toward her hair,
And her foot keeps time to a distant air.
I'm afraid she does not recall or care--
She does not offer to kiss me now!
Heigho! What a sad, what a sweet affair,
What a curious mixture life seems to be!
I am fast in the net of love, and there,
With another man on the winding stair,
Is the girl I love,--and I pulled her hair
When she wanted a kiss at the age of three!
GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
_Columbia Spectator._
~A Toast.~
Clink, clink,
Fill up your glasses.
Drink, drink,
Drink to the lasses.
Eyes that are blue,
Lips that are sweet,
Hearts that are true,
Figures petite.
Clink, clink,
Fill up your glasses.
Drink, drink,
Drink to the lasses.
Drink, for there's nothing so sweet as a maid is;
Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.
HENRY MORGAN STONE.
_Brunonian_.
~A Bit of Lace.~
It lay upon a pillow white,
The framework of a beauteous sight
Wherein its mistress laid a bright
Ecstatic face,
And when each night it proudly bore
Her wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or"
It seemed a very Heaven for
The bit of lace.
But lace can from a pillow part
And by a touch, of cunning art
Adorn the casket of the heart,
Where every grace,
Half hidden by its witching fold,
Seeks to betray a charm untold--
How envies each admirer bold
The bit of lace!
Still maidens' mind and garments change,
And so there comes a new exchange;
The real Valenciennes finds a strange
New resting-place,
Where tiny feet and ankles hide,
And where but for a shoe untied
No human eye had e'er espied
The bit of lace.
A crowded street, a sudden scare,
A little rush, a lengthy tear,
A snowy skirt that needs repair,
Decides the case.
And what each morn her footman missed
Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist,
And ardent lovers fondly kissed
The bit of lace.
* * * * *
This tale is incomplete, I know,
But where else could the traveller go?
Ah, it was fifty years ago
All this took place.
And nodding, in her noonday nap,
Secure from every sad mishap,
I see in Grandma's dainty cap
The bit of lace.
_Red and Blue._
~A Song to Her.~
A song to a maid with eyes like stars;
Lad, you can sing it.
Any old tune to trip the bars,
Any old voice to ring it;
Love will wend it away to her;
Love will mend it and pray to her;
Love with his love will wing it.
A song to a maid, a song of songs
Born in the singing
Ever, oh! ever to love belongs;
Ringing, ringing, ringing!
Holly berry, a winter theme,
Bursting cherry, a summer's dream,
Love on love's pinions winging.
_Wrinkle_.
~Circe.~
Merry smiles and entrancing eyes,
Words that are light as passing air.
Lips that never disown disguise,
Hearts that endeavor hearts to snare,
Tongues that know not the way to spare,
Babbling on in a thoughtless whirl;
Would-be worshippers, O beware!
These are the ways of the modern girl.
Faces fickle as April skies,
Eyes where Cupid has made his lair;
When they tempt you to idolize,
Then for a broken heart prepare.
What does she care for your despair,
Striving peace from your life to hurl?
Would-be worshippers, O take care!
These are the ways of the modern girl.
Ribbons and laces, smiles and sighs,
A knot of vermilion in her hair,
Glances where veiled deception lies,
A kiss, perchance, on the winding stair,
Exquisite gowns and roses rare,
Shimmer of silver, gloss of pearl--
Where is the heart, O woman, where?
These are the ways of the modern girl.