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THE GODDESS OF SLANG.

111

I

THE GODDESS OF SLANG.

WAS courting a beautiful girl one night,

Whom I worshipped as nearly divine,

And longed to hear breathed the sweet little word,

To tell me that she would be mine.

I was praising the wealth of her chestnut hair,
The depth of her eye's matchless blue,

When she laid her cheek on my shoulder, and said,
"Hurrah! that's bully for you!"

I started in terror, but managed to keep

From showing my intense surprise,

And pressed my lips lightly on brow and on cheek,
And e'en on her meekly-closed eyes.

I told her my love was as deep as the sea,

(As I felt her heart going pit-patter!)

And would worship her always if she would be mine;
And she whispered, "That's what's the matter!

I told her, her cheek would the rose put to shame,
Her teeth the famed Orient pearl,

And the ocean's rich coral could never compare
With the lips of my beautiful girl;

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That her voice was like music that comes to the ear

In the night-time, and sweet was her smile

As that of an angel; and softly she breathed, "On that you can just bet your pile!”

In the hush of the starlight I still whispered on,

And pressed her more close to my

breast;

Talked sweeter than "Romeo," dearer than "Claude,"
And told her how true love was blest;

Of bliss in a cottage, of flowers and birds,

(Though I felt the times strange out of joint,) When she looked up with a smile, and daintily lisped In my ear, "I can't see the point!

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I pressed her still closer, I talked still more sweet,
Called the stars to look down on our love,

112

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.

Made kiss rhyme to bliss, and love rhyme to dove,
And vowed by the heavens above

I'd be constant and true if she'd only be mine—
Pressed her lips and caressed her fair locks-
When she answered me back with a rich, saucy laugh,
"Look here, you are after the rocks!"

What a fall for a lover! I left in disgust

My angel had faded away;

My dream was dispelled, my love had grown cold,
December had chased away May;

And two hearts were parted to meet nevermore
As in days when the love-tunes were sang.

Oh, why will rare beauty her rosy lips stain
With the words of the Goddess of Slang!

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.-SHAKESPEARE.

Y liege, I did deny no prisoners.

MY

But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped, Showed like stubble-land at harvest home.

He was perfumed like a milliner;

And, 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held

A pouncet-box, which, ever and anon,

He gave his nose. And still he smiled, and talked,

And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,

He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.

With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in her majesty's behalf:

I then, all smarting with my wounds, being galled

EVA.

To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,

Answered negligently-I know not what

He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,

And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds--heaven save the mark—
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth,
Was spermaceti-for an inward bruise:

And that it was great pity-so it was—
That villainous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good, tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said;

And I beseech you, let not his report
Come current, for an accusation,

Betwixt my love and your high majesty.

ΟΝ

EVA.

N the white hawthorn's bloom, in purpling streak,
I see the fairy-ring of morning break;

On the green valley's brow she golden glows,
Kissing the crimson of the opening rose,-
Knits with her thousand smiles its damask dyes,
And laughs the season on our hearts and eyes.
Rise, Eva, rise! fair spirit of my breast,

In whom I live, forsake the down of rest.

Lovelier than morn, carnationed in soft hues,
Sweeter than rifled roses in the dews
Of dawn divinely weeping-and more fair
Than the coy flowers fann'd by mountain air;

113

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More modest than the morning's blushing smile.
Rise, Eva, rise! pride of our Western Isle-
The sky's blue beauties lose their sunny grace
Before the calm, soft splendors of thy face.

Thy breath is sweeter than the apple-bloom,
When Spring's musk'd spirit bathes it in perfume;
The rock's wild honey steeps thy rubied lip-
Rise, Eva, rise!-I long these sweets to sip.
The polish'd ringlets of thy jetty locks
Shame the black ravens' on their sun-gilt rocks;
Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow,
Than the wild cygnet's silvery plume of snow.

And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss,
The witch of love, in all her blessedness,
Heaves all her spells, wings all her feathered darts,
And dips her arrows in adoring hearts.
Rise, Eva, rise! the sun sheds his sweet ray,
Am'rous to kiss thee-rise, my love! we'll stray
Across the mountain,-on the blossomy heath,-
The heath-bloom holds for thee its odorous breath.

From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies,
I'll pick for thee the strings of strawberries;
The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel-tree-
Soul of my heart!-I'll strip to give to thee;
As thy red lips the berries shall be bright,
And the sweet nuts shall be as ripe and white
And milky, as the love-begotten tide,
That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride!

Queen of the smile of joy! shall I not kiss
Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless'd bower of bliss?
Shall not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms,
And fold his Eva in his longing arms?
Shall Inniscather's wood again attest
Thy beauties strain'd unto this burning breast?
Absent how long! Ah! when wilt thou return?
When shall this wither'd bosom cease to mourn?

SCOTT AND THE VETERAN.

Eva! why stay so long? why leave me lone
In the deep valley, to the cold gray stone
Pouring my plaints? O come, divinest fair!
Chase from my breast the demon of despair.
The winds are witness to my deep distress;
Like the lone wanderer of the wilderness,
For thee I languish and for thee I sigh-
My Eva, come, or thy poor swain shall die!

And didst thou hear my melancholy lay?
And art thou coming, love? My Eva! say?
Thou daughter of a meek-eyed dame, thy face
Is lovelier than thy mother's, in soft grace.
O yes! thou comest, Eva! to my sight
An angel-minister of heavenly light;-
The sons of frozen climes can never see
Summer's bright smile so glad as I see thee:
Thy steps to me are lovelier than the ray
That roses night's cheek with the blush of day.

115

SCOTT AND THE VETERAN.-BAYARD TAYLOR.

AN old and crippled veteran to the War Department came,

He sought the Chief who led him, on many a field of fame— The Chief who shouted "Forward!" where'er his banner rose, And bore its stars in triumph behind the flying foes.

"Have you forgotten, General," the battered soldier cried, "The days of eighteen hundred twelve, when I was at your side? Have you forgotten Johnson, who fought at Lundy's Lane? 'Tis true, I'm old and pension'd, but I want to fight again."

"Have I forgotten?" said the Chief; "my brave old soldier, no! And here's the hand I gave you then, and let it tell you so; But you have done your share, my friend; you're crippled, old,

and gray,

And we have need of younger arms and fresher blood to-day."

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