Mathieu Ropars: et cetera Part 18

Despite experience, what can set The widow hoping?

Why are wives sometimes gadding met, And sometimes moping?

Don't talk of widows' amorous b.u.mp, Of wives too free; But pop the question to them, plump-- Pray, who is he?

We're mighty prompt to throw the blame on The weaker fair s.e.x; When justice ought to fix the shame on Ours--not on their s.e.x.

Ours the seduction and the fooling, If such there be: Come; your exception to this ruling-- Pray, who is he?

The old and hump-backed ply their battery Of gold and jewels; Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery, Dance, song, oaths, duels.

So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir, Upon the Bible, That to blame one--in place of both, sir,-- Is a gross libel!

TO NINON.

_From the French of Alfred de Musset._

Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well, Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?

Love is the cause of many a pang--their source thou well can'st guess; No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess: And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless!

Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed, Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed; Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye, That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy: "I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.

Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream, Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem; A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,-- Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance: And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.

Were I to tell thee that my soul h.o.a.rds up the lightest word, That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard; Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain, Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain: And thine perchance would flas.h.i.+ng say, "We must not meet again!"

Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee, And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee, Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware, In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear: Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be there

But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold, Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold.

I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale; And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail; Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.

By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean, When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean, And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow; Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go, I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.

When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night, And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight, A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold, To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.

I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone.

I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?--I alone!

Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed; And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest; But not without a taste of joy--I see thee, and am blest.

No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet: To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet.

Alas! all proves it--e'en the grief that fain I would dispel.

Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well: Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?

THE LAST OF THE ROMAN GLADIATORS.

The incident, which the following stanzas attempt to describe, is historical. It is related by Gibbon in his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."

Ye, who have the ruins seen Of the Coliseum's walls, Think ye, what the sight hath been Of Rome's highest festivals!

If your fancy can restore Crumbled arch and corridor, Call forth the dead; Bid them fill again the seats, Where now Echo only greets The stranger's tread.

Fourteen hundred years are past, Rome hath fallen in her pride, Since the gladiator last In the Coliseum died.

Fourteen hundred years ago, Tens of thousands thronged the show, In joyous guise, On the struggle and the strife, And the pangs of parting life, Feasting their eyes.

Then ye might have heard the roar Of the n.o.ble beasts of prey, As they fought and bled, before Men less n.o.ble far than they.

Strength is useless, courage vain, Beauty saves not--they are slain, The forest race; Whilst the still unsated crowd For new victims shout aloud, To fill their place.

Hark! the Praetor's stern command Costlier sacrifice proclaims; Lo! the gladiatorial band, Glory of the Roman Games!

As they enter, man by man, Shape and size the people scan With eager glance; And of each ill-fated pair, That await the signal there, Foretell the chance.

Hark! the trumpet's sudden sound; Lo! the work of death begun: Seas of blood shall drench the ground, Ere that deadly work be done.

Ha! a moment of delay?

What the lifted hand can stay?

Is there a fear Of Pompeii's fiery shower?

Or, doth Earthquake's giant power Make havoc here?

No--for Nature with a smile Looks upon her outraged laws, Man's indignant voice the while Bidding man in pity pause.

See!--a monk, obscure, unknown, Christ's disciple, treads alone The arena's sand, Foe from foe intent to part, Striving with a zealous heart, But feeble hand.

Would ye seek to know his fate?

Listen to that savage yell!

Scorn, derision, fury, hate, Doomed his death--the martyr fell.

Record there is none to show, Whose the hand that dealt the blow That laid him there; Men who gazed, and men who fought, All alike to madness wrought, The guilt must share.

Whether stoned to death, or slain By the sword, or by the spear, Little recks it--it were vain Through the mists of time to peer.

This we know--the martyr died; Nor without success had plied His work of peace, Since, to expiate that deed, Rome's Imperial Lord decreed, The Games should cease.

Rome obeyed her Lord's commands; Never were those Games renewed: Now the priest of Jesus stands Where the gladiator stood.

Thanks, Telemachus, to thee, Sainted martyr, now we see Altars around; And the spot, where thou of yore Did'st thy life-blood n.o.bly pour, Is hallowed ground.

THE PRUDENT BRIDE.

At Salem Meeting-House, one summer day, Two lovers, Abby Purkis and John Cole, Were joined in holy wedlock. Off they started To spend the honey-moon, gregarious, At Trenton, Saratoga, and the Falls.

Reaching this last-named wonder of the world, They went the usual round; mounted the tower That overlooks the cataract; stood and watched The eddying Rapids, and the whirling Pool; Nor on thy deck, O daring "_Maid of the Mist_,"

Failed they to buffet the tumultuous roar, The drenching spray, the seeming perilous plunge Beneath the Horse-Shoe. Every where, throughout, Abby was brave; nay, on John's stalwart arm Leaning, was confident.

At last they reached The Cavern of the Winds. Then changed her bearing.

Trembling, she paused. In truth, the howling blasts, And gusty moans as of imprisoned spirits, Struck the bride's soul with terror. All aghast, She stood before the entrance, and refused, Firmly refused to trust herself within.

John urged--she would not; coaxed--'twas all in vain; Laughed at, and called her "little fool"--she would not.

Nay more, she prayed him by the love he bore her Not to set foot himself within a place So fraught with peril. John was ungallant, And only laughed the more. Not he the man To flinch from fisticuffs with aeolus!

Had he not harpooned whales in Arctic seas?

Were not typhoon, white squall, and hurricane His some time playmates? It was her turn now To coax, and urge, and crave--and be denied.

Chafed that her will was not a law to John, Abby was woman still, and sorely grieved That he should run such risks. She kissed him fondly, And bade him tread with care, and hasten back.