EAR Priscilla, quaint and very Like a modern Puritan, Is a modest, literary, Merry young American: Horace she has read, and Bion Is her favorite in Greek; Shakespeare is a mighty lion
In whose den she dares but peek; Him she leaves to some sage Daniel, Since of lions she's afraid,She prefers a playful spaniel, Such as Herrick or as Praed;
And it's not a bit satiric
To confess her fancy goes
From the epic to a lyric
Wise Priscilla, dilettante,
With a sentimental mind,
Doesn't deign to dip in Dante
And to Milton isn't kind; L'Allegro, Il Penseroso
Have some merits she will grant,
All the rest is only so-so,
Enter Paradise she can't!
She might make a charming angel (And she will if she is good),
But it's doubtful if the change'll
Make the Epic understood:
'Honey-suckling, like a bee she
Goes and pillages his sweets,
And it's plain enough to see she
Worships Keats.
Gay Priscilla, just the person
For the Locker whom she loves; What a captivating verse on
Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves
He could write in catching measure,
Setting all the heart astir!
And to Aldrich what a pleasure
It would be to sing of her,-
He, whose perfect songs have won her
Lips to quote them day by day.
She repeats the rhymes of Bunner
In a fascinating way,
And you'll often find her lost in-
She has reveries at times-
Some delightful one of Austin
Dobson's rhymes.
O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla,
you makes me think,
As I burn my brown Manila
And immortalize my ink,
How well satisfied these poets
Ought to be with what they do
When, especially, they know it's
Read by such a girl as you:
I who sing of you would marry
Just the kind of girl you are,—
One who doesn't care to carry
Her poetic taste too far,
One whose fancy is a bright one,
Who is fond of poems fine,
And appreciates a light one
Such as mine.
IS strange to look across the street
And feel that we no more shall greet
Our middle-aged, precise, and neat,
Old-fashioned neighbor.
It seems, in his unlighted hall,
His much-prized pictures on the wall
Must miss his presence, and recall
His loving labor.
His manner was serene and fine,
Fashioned on some Old-World design.
His wit grew keener with the wine,
And kindlier after;
And when the revelry rang high,
No one could make more apt reply;
Yet, though they sometimes marked his sigh,
None heard his laughter.
He held as foolish him who dotes
On politics or petticoats;
He vowed he'd hear no talk of votes
Or silly scandals.
No journeys tempted him; he swore
He held his world within his door,
And there he'd dwell till life was o'er,
Secure from vandals.
"Why should I roam the world again?"
He said. "Domingo shows me Spain;
The dust of travel then were vain.
What springtime chances
To match my Corot there! One glance
Is worth a year of actual France.
The real ne'er equals the romance,
Nor fact our fancies."
His walls were decked with maidens fair—
A Henner with rich auburn hair;
A Reynolds with the stately air
That fits a beauty;
There glanced a Greuze with girlish grace;
And yonder, with the strong, calm face,
The peasant sister of her race,
Whose life is duty.
He valued most the sunny day
Because it lighted his Dupré,
And showed his small Meissonier
In proper fashion.
And tender was the glance he bent
Upon his missal's ornament,
Whereon some patient monk had spent
His artist passion.
I used to love to see him pass
His fingers o'er some rare old glass.
He never took delight en masse;
He loved each treasure:
The precious bronzes from Japan,
The rugs from towered Ispahan,
His rose-tint Sèvres, his famous fan-
Each had its pleasure.
And so he held that Art was all;
Yet when Death made the solemn call,
Before the desk in his long hall
They found him sitting.
Within the hands clasped on his breast
An old daguerreotype was pressed-
A sweet-faced, smiling girl, and dressed.
In frills befitting.
Naught of his story can we know,
Nor whose the fault so long ago,
Nor with what meed of weal or woe
His love was blended.
Yet o'er his rare Delft mantel-tiles
Bellini's sweet Madonna smiles
As though she knew the weary miles
For him are ended.
Beatrice Hanscom.
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