Volume Iv Part 9 (1/2)

Alfred Cochrane [1865-

A PORTRAIT

In sunny girlhood's vernal life She caused no small sensation, But now the modest English wife To others leaves flirtation.

She's young still, lovely, debonair, Although sometimes her features Are clouded by a thought of care For those two tiny creatures.

Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite a.s.serts with voice emphatic, In lisping accents, ”Mite is right,”

Their rule is autocratic: The song becomes, that charmed mankind, Their musical narcotic, And baby lips than Love, she'll find, Are even more despotic.

Soft lullaby when singing there, And castles ever building, Their destiny she'll carve in air, Bright with maternal gilding: Young Guy, a clever advocate, So eloquent and able!

A powdered wig upon his pate, A coronet for Mabel!

Joseph Ashby-Sterry [1838-1917]

”OLD BOOKS ARE BEST”

Old Books are best! With what delight Does ”Faithorne fecit” greet our sight On frontispiece or t.i.tle-page Of that old time, when on the stage ”Sweet Nell” set ”Rowley's” heart alight!

And you, O Friend, to whom I write, Must not deny, e'en though you might, Through fear of modern pirates' rage, Old Books are best.

What though the print be not so bright, The paper dark, the binding slight?

Our author, be he dull or sage, Returning from that distant age So lives again, we say of right: Old Books are best.

Beverly Chew [1850-1924]

IMPRESSION

In these restrained and careful times Our knowledge petrifies our rhymes; Ah! for that reckless fire men had When it was witty to be mad;

When wild conceits were piled in scores, And lit by flaming metaphors, When all was crazed and out of tune,-- Yet throbbed with music of the moon.

If we could dare to write as ill As some whose voices haunt us still, Even we, perchance, might call our own Their deep enchanting undertone.

We are too diffident and nice, Too learned and too over-wise, Too much afraid of faults to be The flutes of bold sincerity.

For, as this sweet life pa.s.ses by, We blink and nod with critic eye; We've no words rude enough to give Its charm so frank and fugitive.

The green and scarlet of the Park, The undulating streets at dark, The brown smoke blown across the blue, This colored city we walk through;--

The pallid faces full of pain, The field-smell of the pa.s.sing wain, The laughter, longing, perfume, strife, The daily spectacle of life;--

Ah! how shall this be given to rhyme, By rhymesters of a knowing time?

Ah! for the age when verse was clad, Being G.o.dlike, to be bad and mad.