A RHYME FOR PRISCILLA
Dear 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;
Shakspeare 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
On a rose.
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—
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:
Honeysuckling, 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,
Writing of you makes me think,
As I burn my brown Manila
And immortalize my ink,
How well satisfied these poets
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.
As the car reached Westville, an old man with a long white beard rose feebly from a corner seat and tottered toward the door. He was, however, stopped by the conductor, who said:
“Your fare, please.”
“I paid my fare.”
“When? I don’t remember it.”
“Why, I paid you when I got on the car.”
“Where did you get on?”
“At Fair Haven.”
“That won’t do! When I left Fair Haven there was only a little boy on the car.”
“Yes,” answered the old man, “I know it. I was that little boy.”
AN EPITAPH
Here lies the body of Susan Lowder
Who burst while drinking Seidlitz powder.
Called from this world to her heavenly rest,
She should have waited till it effervesced.