Of every quality and grade And size they may be found,-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice, I"d choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal,--
As plump and pudgy as a snipe; Well worth her weight in gold; Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And _just_ the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife How should I keep and con!
How like a dream should run my life Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health, she would not care To extra-ill.u.s.trate.
And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a _jeu d"esprit_,-- But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse when to verse inclined,-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this What happiness abounds!
Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes!
CHRISTMAS HYMN
Sing, Christmas bells!
Say to the earth this is the morn Whereon our Saviour-King is born; Sing to all men,--the bond, the free, The rich, the poor, the high, the low, The little child that sports in glee, The aged folk that tottering go,-- Proclaim the morn That Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, angel host!
Sing of the star that G.o.d has placed Above the manger in the east; Sing of the glories of the night, The virgin"s sweet humility, The Babe with kingly robes bedight, Sing to all men where"er they be This Christmas morn; For Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!
Sing, sons of earth!
O ransomed seed of Adam, sing!
G.o.d liveth, and we have a king!
The curse is gone, the bond are free,-- By Bethlehem"s star that brightly beamed, By all the heavenly signs that be, We know that Israel is redeemed; That on this morn The Christ is born That saveth you and saveth me!
Sing, O my heart!
Sing thou in rapture this dear morn Whereon the blessed Prince is born!
And as thy songs shall be of love, So let my deeds be charity,-- By the dear Lord that reigns above, By Him that died upon the tree, By this fair morn Whereon is born The Christ that saveth all and me!
j.a.pANESE LULLABY
Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,-- Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging-- Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star,-- Silvery star with a tinkling song; To the soft dew falling I hear it calling-- Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes,-- Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping-- Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"
Up from the sea there floats the sob Of the waves that are breaking upon the sh.o.r.e, As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning-- Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,-- Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging-- Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
"GOOD-BY--G.o.d BLESS YOU!"
I like the Anglo-Saxon speech With its direct revealings; It takes a hold, and seems to reach "Way down into your feelings; That some folk deem it rude, I know, And therefore they abuse it; But I have never found it so,-- Before all else I choose it.
I don"t object that men should air The Gallic they have paid for, With "Au revoir," "Adieu, ma chere,"
For that"s what French was made for.
But when a crony takes your hand At parting, to address you, He drops all foreign lingo and He says, "Good-by--G.o.d bless you!"
This seems to me a sacred phrase, With reverence impa.s.sioned,-- A thing come down from righteous days, Quaintly but n.o.bly fashioned; It well becomes an honest face, A voice that"s round and cheerful; It stays the st.u.r.dy in his place, And soothes the weak and fearful.
Into the porches of the ears It steals with subtle unction, And in your heart of hearts appears To work its gracious function; And all day long with pleasing song It lingers to caress you,-- I"m sure no human heart goes wrong That"s told "Good-by--G.o.d bless you!"
I love the words,--perhaps because, When I was leaving Mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And I--I saw in Mother"s eyes The love she could not tell me,-- A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear _that_ might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by, And asked our G.o.d to bless me.
HORACE TO PHYLLIS
Come, Phyllis, I"ve a cask of wine That fairly reeks with precious juices, And in your tresses you shall twine The loveliest flowers this vale produces.
My cottage wears a gracious smile,-- The altar, decked in floral glory, Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while As though it pined for honors gory.
Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,-- The boys agog, the maidens snickering; And savory smells possess the air As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.
You ask what means this grand display, This festive throng, and goodly diet?
Well, since you"re bound to have your way, I don"t mind telling, on the quiet.
"Tis April 13, as you know,-- A day and month devote to Venus, Whereon was born, some years ago, My very worthy friend Maecenas.
Nay, pay no heed to Telephus,-- Your friends agree he doesn"t love you; The way he flirts convinces us He really is not worthy of you!
Aurora"s son, unhappy lad!
You know the fate that overtook him?
And Pegasus a rider had-- I say he _had_ before he shook him!
Haec docet (as you must agree): "T is meet that Phyllis should discover A wisdom in preferring me And mittening every other lover.
So come, O Phyllis, last and best Of loves with which this heart"s been smitten,-- Come, sing my jealous fears to rest, And let your songs be those _I"ve_ written.