THE HOLLYHOCKS

SOME space beyond the garden close
I sauntered down the shadowed lawn;
It was the hour when sluggards doze,

The cheerful, zephyr-breathing dawn.
The sun had not yet bathed his face,
Dark reddened from the night's carouse,
When, lo! in festive gypsy grace

The hollyhocks stood nodding brows. They shone full bold and debonairThat fine, trim band of frolie blades; Their ruffles, pinked and purtled fair, Flamed with their riotous rainbow shades. They whispered light each comrade's ears, They flirted with the wooing breeze; The grassy army's stanchest spears

Rose merely to their stalwart knees!

My heart flushed warm with welcome cheer,
They were so royal tall to see;
No high-placed rivals need they fear,
All flowers paid them fealty.
The haughtiest wild rose standing near
Their girdles hardly might attain;
They glowed, the courtiers of a year,
Blithe pages in the Summer's train!

Their radiance mocked the ruddy morn,
So jocund and so saucy free;
Gay vagrants, Flora's bravest born,

They brightened all the emerald lea.

I said: "Glad hearts, the crabbed frost Will soon your sun-dyed glories blight; No evil eye your pride has crossed,

You know not the designs of night.

"You have not thought that beauty fades; It is in vain you bloom so free; While you are flaunting in the glades

The gale may wreek your wanton glee." They shook their silken frills in scorn,

And to my warning seemed to say, "Dull rhymester, look! 'tis summer morn, And round us is the court of Day !"

DON QUIXOTE

GAUNT, rueful knight, on raw-boned, shambling hack,

Thy battered morion, shield and rusty spear, Jog ever down the road in strange career, Both tears and laughter following on thy track,

Stout Sancho hard behind, whose leathern back

Is curved in clownish sufferance, mutual cheer

The quest beguiling as devoid of fear, Thou spurrest to rid the world of rogues, alack!

Despite fantastic creed and addled pate, Of awkward arms and weight of creaking steel,

WHAT dost thou here,
Thou dusky courtier,

Within the pinky palace of the rose?

Here is no bed for thee,
No honeyed spicery, -
But for the golden bee,
And the gay wind, and me,

Its sweetness grows.
Rover, thou dost forget; -
Seek thou the passion-flower
Bloom of one twilight hour.
Haste, thou art late !
Its hidden savors wait.
For thee is spread
Its soft, purple coverlet;
Moth, art thou sped?
- Dim as a ghost he flies
Thorough the night mysteries.

-

HER PICTURE

AUTUMN was cold in Plymouth town;
The wind ran round the shore,
Now softly passing up and down,
Now wild and fierce and fleet,
Wavering overhead,
Moaning in the narrow street
As one beside the dead.

The leaves of wrinkled gold and brown Fluttered here and there,

But not quite heedless where; For as in hood and sad-hued gown

The Rose of Plymouth took the air, They whirled, and whirled, and fell to

Two met who had not met for years;
Onco was their hate too deep for fears:
One drew his rapier as he came,
Upleapt his anger like a flame.
With clash of mail he faced his foe,
And bade him stand and meet him so.
He felt a graveyard wind go by
Cold, cold as was his enemy.

A stony horror held him fast.

The Dead looked with a ghastly staro,
And sighed "I know thee not," and
passed

Like to the mist, and left him there
On Kingston Bridge.

Makes unseeing eyes to see,
And heapeth wealth in penury.
So wags the good old world away
Forever and a day.

PRAISE-GOD BAREBONES

I AND my cousin Wildair met
And tossed a pot together;-
Burut sack it was that Molly brewed,
For it was nipping weather.

'Fore George! To see Dick buss the wench Set all the inn folk laughing!

They dubbed him pearl of cavaliers
At kissing and at quaffing,

"Oddsfish!" says Dick,
"the sack is rare,

And rarely burnt, fair Molly; 'T would cure the sourest Crop-car yet Of Pious Melancholy."

"Egad!" says I, "here cometh one Hath been at 's prayers but lately." -Sooth, Master Praise God Barebones stepped

Along the street sedately.

Dick Wildair, with a swashing bow,
And touch of his Toledo,

Gave Merry Xmas to the rogue

And bade him say his Credo;
Next crush a cup to the King's health,
And eke to pretty Molly;

"T will cure your Saintliness," says Dick,

"Of Pious Melancholy."

Then Master Barebones stopped and frowned;

My heart stood still a minute:
Thinks I, both Dick and I will hang,
Or else the devil's in it!
For me, I care not for old Noll,
Nor all the Rump together.
Yet, faith! 't is best to be alive
In pleasant Xmas weather.

His worship, Barebones, grimly smiled;-
"I love not blows nor brawling;
Yet will I give thee, fool, a pledge!"
And, zooks! he sent Dick sprawling!
When Moll and I helped Wildair up,
No longer trim and jolly,
"Feel'st not, Sir Dick," says saucy Moll,
"A Pious Melancholy ?"

To Ranelagh went Mistress Pam,

Sweet Mistress Pam so fair and merry, With cheeks of cream and roses blent,

With voice of lark and lip of cherry. Then all the beaux vow'd 't was their duty To win and wear this country Beauty.

And first Frank Lovelace tried his wit, With whispers bold and eyes still bolder;

The warmer grew his saucy flame,

Cold grew the charming fair and colder. 'T was "icy bosom"-"cruel beauty" "To love, sweet Mistress, 't is a duty."

Then Jack Carew his arts essayed,

With honeyed sighs and feigned weeping.

Good lack! his billets bound the curls

That pretty Pam she wore a-sleeping. Next day these curls had richer beauty, So well Jack's fervor did its duty.

Then Cousin Will came up to view The way Pamela ruled the fashion; He watched the gallants crowd about, And flew into a rustic passion, Left" Squire, his mark," on divers faces, And pinked Carew beneath his laces.

Alack! one night at Ranelagh

The pretty Sly-boots fell a-blushing; And all the mettled bloods look'd round To see what caused that telltale flushing.

Up stepp'd a grizzled Poet Fellow

To dance with Pam a saltarello.

Then Jack and Frank and Will resolved, With hand on sword and cutting glances,

That they would lead that Graybeard forth

To livelier tunes and other dauces.

Pale as noonday cloudlets are,

Floating in the blue,

This little wildwood star
Blooms in light and dew.

Sun and shadow on her hair, Flowers about her feet, Pale and still and sweet; As a nun all pure and fair, Through the soft spring air, In the light of God Deborah walks abroad.

Her little cap it hath a grace
Most demure and grave,

And her kerchief's modest lace
Veils the lovely wave
Above her maiden heart,

Where only gentle thoughts have part.
Even the tying of her shoe
Hath beauty in it, too,

A delicate, sweet art.

Hiding when the wind goes by,
Not afraid, yet shy,

The tiny flower takes from the sky
Life's own light and dew,
And its exquisite hue.
And the little Quaker maid,
Timidly, yet not afraid,

Unfolds the sweetness of her soul

To Heavenly control,
And wears upon her quiet face
The Spirit's tender grace.

THE BRIDE'S TOILETTE (THE CONCIERGERIE, 1793) "DAME, how the moments goAnd the bride is not ready! Call all her tiring maids, Paul, Jean, and Thedie. Is this your robe, my dear? Faith, but she's steady!

The bridegroom is blest who gets Such a brave lady."

"Pardi! That throat is fair-
How he will kiss it!
Here is your kerchief, girl;
Did you not miss it ?
Quick, don these little shoes,
White as your foot is.