Second Book of Verse Part 2

At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore, And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store.

Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command, But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand.

Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott,-- It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot; Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline?

For I was broke in London in the fall of '89.

Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heap That Curio Fenton offered me at prices pa.s.sing cheap; And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of bra.s.s, And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in gla.s.s!

And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates, The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates!

Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mine When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.

O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by,-- The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the eye,-- The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime, The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time, The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play, And other costly relics of malodorous decay,-- Ye only can appreciate what agony was mine When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.

When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward, Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record; Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any cla.s.sic tongue, Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung; But in plain Anglo-Saxon--that he may know who seeks What agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks-- Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line: "Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89."

CORSICAN LULLABY.

BAMBINO in his cradle slept; And by his side his grandam grim Bent down and smiled upon the child, And sung this lullaby to him,-- This "ninna and anninia":

"When thou art older, thou shalt mind To traverse countries far and wide, And thou shalt go where roses blow And balmy waters singing glide-- So ninna and anninia!

"And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, A famous jacket edged in red, And, more than that, a peaked hat, All decked in gold, upon thy head-- Ah! ninna and anninia!

"Then shalt thou carry gun and knife.

Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, A mighty bandit thou shalt be-- So ninna and anninia!

"No woman yet of our proud race Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; The brazen churl that eyed a girl Bought her the ring or paid his head-- So ninna and anninia!

"But once came spies (I know the thieves!) And brought disaster to our race; G.o.d heard us when our fifteen men Were hanged within the market-place-- But ninna and anninia!

"Good men they were, my babe, and true,-- Right worthy fellows all, and strong; Live thou and be for them and me Avenger of that deadly wrong-- So ninna and anninia!"

THE CLINK OF THE ICE.

NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known.

When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed; When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside, And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a buffalo hide,-- How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall!

Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name, That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame?

Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire, That presently by combustion setteth us all afire?

Or is it the cheery magnum?--nay, I'll not chide the cup That makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up: Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call,-- Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for all.

I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame, And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same; And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desire To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire; I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and screamed,-- In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human dreamed: But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a wink When the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink.

Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup?

Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up!

See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly strove To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen stove!

The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and through: An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.!

And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fret That its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat.

May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drink That happens along at five A. M. with its rapturous clinkety-clink!

I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throat But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote; So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gem For the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five A. M., But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrall Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall.

THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME.

WHAT though the radiant thoroughfare Teems with a noisy throng?

What though men bandy everywhere The ribald jest and song?

Over the din of oaths and cries Broodeth a wondrous calm, And mid that solemn stillness rise The bells of Notre Dame.

"Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say, "Thy weak and erring child; And thou, O gentle Mother, pray That G.o.d be reconciled; And on mankind, O Christ, our King, Pour out Thy gracious balm,"-- 'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing, Those bells of Notre Dame.

And so, methinks, G.o.d, bending down To ken the things of earth, Heeds not the mockery of the town Or cries of ribald mirth; For ever soundeth in His ears A penitential psalm,-- 'T is thy angelic voice He hears, O bells of Notre Dame!

Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice May still forever be An intercession to rejoice Benign divinity; And that thy tuneful grace may fall Like dew, a quickening balm, Upon the arid hearts of all, O bells of Notre Dame!

LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO.

SAINT JO, Buchanan County, Is leagues and leagues away; And I sit in the gloom of this rented room, And pine to be there to-day.

Yes, with London fog around me And the bustling to and fro, I am fretting to be across the sea In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.

I would have a brown-eyed maiden Go driving once again; And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along, That I sung to that maiden then: I purposely say, "as we _snailed_ along,"

For a proper horse goes slow In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles, In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.

From her boudoir in the alders Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush, And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way, To the noisy cricket, "Hus.h.!.+"

To think that the curious creature Should crane her neck to know The various things one says and sings In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!

But the maples they should s.h.i.+eld us From the gossips of the place; Nor should the sun, except by pun, Profane the maiden's face; And the girl should do the driving, For a fellow can't, you know, Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectful In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.

Ah! sweet the hours of springtime, When the heart inclines to woo, And it's deemed all right for the callow wight To do what he wants to do; But cruel the age of winter, When the way of the world says no To the h.o.a.ry men who would woo again In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!

In the Union Bank of London Are forty pounds or more, Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end, In an antiquarian store; But I'd give it all, and gladly, If for an hour or so I could feel the grace of a distant place,-- Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.

Let us sit awhile, beloved, And dream of the good old days,-- Of the kindly shade which the maples made Round the stanch but squeaky chaise; With your head upon my shoulder, And my arm about you so, Though exiles, we shall seem to be In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.