A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.
I read, before I fell into a doze,
Some book about old fashions—curious tales
Of bye-gone fancies—kirtles and trunk hose—
Of hoops, and fardingales—
Of mediæval milliners, whose taste
Preluded our vile fashions of to day—
Of how they moulded the ancestral waist
With steel-bound taffeta—
Of powdered heroes of the later days—
Of Hamlets strutting in their full court suits,
Slouch-hatted villains of transpontine plays,
All belt and bucket boots—
So shape chased shape (as swiftly as, when knocks
Of angry tradesmen bluster at the door,
Turgid with envelopes my letter box
Boils over on the floor).
Till fancy, running riot in my brain,
Elbowed the PAST from out the PRESENT'S way;
And opened in my dream, distinct and plain,
A vision of to-day.
Methought that I was on what's called "a spree,"
Yet sadly pensive in the motley throng.
Where thrills through clouds of smoke the melody
Of idiotic song;
Where youth with tipsy rapture drowns in beer
All common sense, votes decency a bore,
But, to the shapely limbs and sensuous leer,
Yells out a loud "Encore—"
Then flashed before me in the gaslights' glare
A form to make the boldest hold his breath,
She, who by reckless leapings in mid air,
Plays pitch and toss with Death.
Shame on the gaping crowds who only know
Sensation in the chance of broken necks!
Shame on the manliness that cries "Bravo"
To such a scorn of sex!
I saw that now, since License holds such sway,
The comic muse her false position feels,
And that her sister may not gain the day,
Has taken to her heels.
And then methought I stood in fairy bowers,
Where Dulness hides behind the mask of Fun,
Where tin-foil and Dutch metal do for flowers,
And lime-light is the sun;
Where Art groans under an unseemly ban,
And airy nothings pass for full attire,
The Stage appeals but to the baser man,
And th' only blush, Red Fire!
* * * *
Then starting I awoke from my nightmare.
A nightmare? No! the truth came clear to me.
I'd dream'd the truth—bare facts (O much too bare!)
And stern reality.