He'll stand before a painting, and without A single instant's thought, or hesitation, He'll tell the painter's name, nor any doubt Is there he gives the proper information.
The rocks, the hills and valleys, hold from him No secret that is past a man's revealing.
He knows why some are stout and others slim; He comprehends all kinds of human feeling.
The records of the stars he knows, and each Romance that round about the heavens lingers.
At dinner-time he oft delights to preach On which was made the first, or forks or fingers.
Indeed, all things he knows, or high or low- The things that fly on wing, or go a-walking- Except one thing he never seems to know, And that's when he should stop his endless talking.
_THE PERJURY OF A REJECTED LOVER_
WHEN I was twenty-one, I swore, If I should ever wed, The maiden that I should adore Should have a classic head; Should have a form quite Junoesque; A manner full of grace; A wealth of hirsute picturesque Above a piquant face.
But I, alas! am perjured, for I've wed a dumpy lass I much despised in days of yore, Of quite the plainest class, Because each maiden of my dream, Whose favor I did seek, Was so opposed unto my scheme I married Jane in pique.
_MAID OF CULTURE_
MAID of culture, ere we part, Since we've talked of letters, art, Science, faith, and hypnotism, And 'most every other ism, When you wrote, a while ago, ??? ??, s?? ??ap?,
Let me tell you this, my dear: Though your lettering was clear, Though the ancient sages Greek Would be glad to hear you speak, They would be replete with woe At your ??, s?? ??ap?.
For, dear maiden most astute, You have placed the mark acute O'er omega. Take your specs.
See? It should be circumflex.
Still I love you, even though You have written ??ap?.
_NOT PERFECT_
HER eyes are blue-a lovely hue For eyes; her cheeks are pink, And for the cheek, 'twixt me and you, That color's right, I think.
Her fingers taper prettily, Her teeth are white as pearls- Her hands seem softer far to me Than any other girl's.
Her figure's trim-it is petite- I like them just that way, And truly, maiden half so sweet You'd not find every day.
And yet, alas! she's not my choice, This creature of my rhyme- Because her soft and rich-toned voice Is going all the time.
_A CITY DWELLER'S WISH_
I LOVE the leaf of the old oak-tree, I love the gum of the spruce, I love the bark of the hickory, And I love the maple's juice.
On the walnut's grain I fondly dote, On the cherry's fruit I'd dine, And I love to lie in a narrow boat, And scent the odor of pine.
Ah, me! how I wish some power grand Would invent some single tree With all these points well developed, and Would send that tree to me!
I'd plant it deep in the jardiniere That stands in this flat of mine; I'd give it the sweetest, tenderest care, And water its roots with wine.
_WHERE ARE THEY?_
WHAT has become of the cast-off coats That covered Will Shakespeare's back?
What has become of the old row-boats Of Kidd and his pirate pack?
Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore?
Where are poor Shelley's cuffs?
What has become of that wondrous store Of Queen Elizabeth's ruffs?
Where are the slippers of Ferdinand?
Where are Marc Antony's clothes?
Where are the gloves from Antoinette's hand?
Where Oliver Goldsmith's hose?
I do not search for the ships of Tyre- The grave of Whittington's cat Would sooner set my spirit on fire- Or even Beau Brummel's hat.
And when I reflect that there are spots In the world that I can't find, Where lie these same identical lots, And many of this same kind,
I'm tempted to give a store of gold To him that will bring to me A glass, Earth's mysteries to unfold, And show me where these things be.
_MEMORIES_
YON maiden once a jester did adore, Who early died and in the church-yard sleeps.
Once in a while she reads his best jokes o'er And sits her down and madly, sorely weeps.
_A SAD STATE_