The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 5

When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, Where sunbeams play, where shadows darken, One inmate of our dwelling keeps Its ghastly carnival; but hearken!

How dry the rattle of the bones!

That sound was not to make you start meant: Stand by! Your humble servant owns The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

A TERRIBLE INFANT

I recollect a nurse called Ann, Who carried me about the gra.s.s, And one fine day a fine young man Came up, and kissed the pretty la.s.s: She did not make the least objection!

Thinks I, "Aha!

When I can talk I'll tell Mamma"

--And that's my earliest recollection.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

COMPANIONS A Tale Of A Grandfather

I know not of what we pondered Or made pretty pretence to talk, As, her hand within mine, we wandered.

Toward the pool by the lime-tree walk, While the dew fell in showers from the pa.s.sion flowers And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure: Was it regal as Juno's own?

Or only a trifle bigger Than the elves who surround the throne Of the Fairy Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like I know not: Perhaps they were blurred with tears; And perhaps in yon skies there glow not (On the contrary) clearer spheres.

No! as to her eyes I am just as wise As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly": But which was she, brunette or blonde?

Her hair, was it quaintly curly, Or as straight as a beadle's wand?

That I failed to remark: it was rather dark And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly In mine,--was it plump or spare?

Was the countenance fair or ugly?

Nay, children, you have me there!

My eyes were p'haps blurred; and besides I'd heard That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I,--was I brusque and surly?

Or oppressively bland and fond?

Was I partial to rising early?

Or why did we twain abscond, When n.o.body knew, from the public view To prowl by a misty pond?

What pa.s.sed, what was felt or spoken,-- Whether anything pa.s.sed at all,-- And whether the heart was broken That beat under that sheltering shawl,-- (If shawl she had on, which I doubt),--has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?

Or her uncle? I can't make out; Ask your governess, dears, or tutor.

For myself, I'm in hopeless doubt As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And what this is all about.

Charles Stuart Calverley [1831-1884]

DOROTHY Q A Family Portrait

Grandmother's mother: her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less: Girlish bust, but womanly air; Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair; Lips that lover has never kissed; Taper fingers and slender wrist; Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade; So they painted the little maid.

On her hand a parrot green Sits unmoving and broods serene.

Hold up the canvas full in view,-- Look! there's a rent the light s.h.i.+nes through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust,-- That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust!

Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.

Who the painter was none may tell,-- One whose best was not over well; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed; Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Dainty colors of red and white, And in her slender shape are seen Hint and promise of stately mien.

Look not on her with eyes of scorn,-- Dorothy Q. was a lady born!

Ay! since the galloping Normans came, England's annals have known her name; And still to the three-hilled rebel town Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreath they won, The youthful sire and the gray-haired son.

O Damsel Dorothy! Dorothy Q.!

Strange is the gift that I owe to you; Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring,-- All my tenure of heart and hand, All my t.i.tle to house and land; Mother and sister and child and wife And joy and sorrow and death and life!

What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name, And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill?

Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another, to nine tenths me?

Soft is the breath of a maiden's YES: Not the light gossamer stirs with less; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast, And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babbling air so long!

There were tones in the voice that whispered then You may hear to-day in a hundred men.

O lady and lover, how faint and far Your images hover,--and here we are Solid and stirring in flesh and bone,-- Edward's and Dorothy's--all their own,-- A goodly record for Time to show Of a syllable spoken so long ago!-- Shall I bless you, Dorothy, or forgive For the tender whisper that bade me live?

It shall be a blessing, my little maid!

I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's blade, And freshen the gold of the tarnished frame, And gild with a rhyme your household name; So you shall smile on us brave and bright As first you greeted the morning's light, And live untroubled by woes and fears Through a second youth of a hundred years.

Oliver Wendell Holmes [1809-1894]

MY AUNT

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!

Long years have o'er her flown; Yet still she strains the aching clasp That binds her virgin zone; I know it hurts her,--though she looks As cheerful as she can; Her waist is ampler than her life, For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray; Why will she train that winter curl In such a spring-like way?

How can she lay her gla.s.ses down, And say she reads as well, When, through a double convex lens, She just makes out to spell?

Her father,--grandpapa! forgive This erring lip its smiles,-- Vowed she should make the finest girl Within a hundred miles; He sent her to a stylish school; 'Twas in her thirteenth June; And with her, as the rules required, "Two towels and a spoon."