To this slope went boy and maiden,
Traveling toward a pool of water.
Oh, the hard and treacherous hillside!
Oh, the slippery, stony pathway!
Fatal 'twas to many a brave one,
Fatal, too, unto our hero.
'Neath his feet a trembling boulder
Moved a little toward the valley;
To the valley fell our hero.
Quick the maiden's heart was beating,
And without a moment's pausing,
Thus aloud she spoke, declaring,
"I will go where'er thou goest!"
Then from off the selfsame boulder
Down the maiden cast her body.
Thus departed girl and lover;
In their death they're not divided.
Poe would never have taken this accident to Jack and Jill so much to heart, but in a half reckless mood he would have written:
Once upon a morning merry, Jack and Jill felt quite contrary,
As they wandered forth together to fetch water from the hill.
As they sauntered, acting badly, Jack began to speak most madly,
And his temper was most sadly patterned after sister
For his tasting she chastised him, gave a push and lost
And both tumbled down the hill.
C. N., in Vermillion Republic, Buffalo, 1889.
A RECIPE FOR A SALAD
To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half suspected, animate the whole;
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar procured from town;
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious! oh, herbaceous treat!
'Twould tempt a dying anchorite to eat:
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
"Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today!"
From the Armenian of Archag Tchobanian)
All things are bound together by a tie
Finer and subtler than a ray of light. Color and sound are fleeting fragrances,
The maiden's smile, the star beams sparkling bright, Are knit together by a secret bond
Finer and subtler than a ray of light.
Sometimes an urn of memories is unsealed
Just by a simple tune, or sad or gay.
Part of the past with every quivering note
From its dark sleep awakens to the day,
And we live o'er again a long past life,
Just through a simple tune, or sad or gay.
Flowers call back men and women to our thoughts;
A well-known face smiles on us in their hue;
Their bright cups, moved by the capricious wind,
Can make no dream of eyes, black eyes or blue.
We in their fragrance feel a loved one's breath;
Flowers call back men and women whom we knew.
The summer sea recalls fond, happy hours;
We in the sunset see our dead once more;
In starlight holy loves upon us smile;
With our own griefs the stormy thunders roar;
The zephyr breathes to us a name adored;
We in the sunset see the dead once more.
All things are bound in closest unison
Throughout the world, by many a mystic thread. The flower and love, the breeze and reverie,
Nature and man, and things alive and dead, Are all akin, and bound in harmony
Throughout the world by many a mystic thread.
What would you take for that soft little head
Pressed close to your face at time for bed;
For that white, dimpled hand in your own held tight,
And the dear little eyelids kissed down for the night?
What would you take?
What would you take for that smile in the morn,
Those bright, dancing eyes and the face they adorn:
For the sweet little voice that you hear all day
Laughing and cooing-yet nothing to say?
What would you take?
What would you take for those pink little feet,
Those chubby round cheeks, and that mouth so sweet;
For the wee tiny fingers and little soft toes.
The wrinkly little neck and that funny little nose?
Now, what would you take?
Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affections restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past like the rich pumpkin-pie?
O fruit loved of boyhood!-the old days recalling, When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts werc falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,-our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present--none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
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