CASUALTY
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A well-sharp'd pencil leads one on to write: When guns are cocked, the shot is guaranteed; The primed occasion puts the deed in sight: Who steals a book who knows not how to read? Seeing a pulpit, who can silence keep? A maid, who would not dream her ta'en to wife? Men looking down from some sheer dizzy steep Have (quite impromptu) leapt, and ended life. |
AT THE WOMEN'S CLUBS
A representation of what happens when Mr. Dunraven Dulcet, the gifted poet, reads some of his verses to an audience of two hundred ladies and one man. After Mr. Dulcet has been introduced, and after he has expressed his mortification (or is it gratification?) at Madam Chairman's kind remarks, he proceeds as follows. The comments of his audience are indicated in italics.
| Romance abides in humble things:— How commonplace the precious ore! The shining vision sometimes springs | |
| The one man: | |
| From too much cheese the night before! | |
| The man who seeks the True Romance Among the high aristocrats, Forgets the crowning circumstance | |
| Mrs. Smith: | |
| My dear, he wears the sweetest spats! | |
| Some little gutter-dabbling child, Some shabby clerk whom all despise— On him Olympus may have smiled | |
| Mrs. Brown: | |
| He has those dark romantic eyes! | |
| Some shimmer from the lustred dawn Of hitherto unguessed to-morrows, Imperishable laurels drawn | |
| Mrs. Jones: | |
| I think he must have secret sorrows! | |
| Immeasurable arcs of sky, Vast spaces where the great winds shout, His eye must pierce, his hand must try.... | |
| Mrs. Robinson: | |
| Too bad that he is growing stout! | |
| His heart is like a parchment scroll Whereon the beautiful, the true, Are registered; and in his soul | |
| Mrs. Smith: | |
| I do love poetry, don't you? | |
| Romance abides in humble things, And humble people understand That feathers from an angel's wings | |
| Mrs. Brown: | |
| I must just go and shake his hand! | |
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY COAL-BIN
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The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam, The coal supply is virtually done, And at this price, indeed it does not seem As though we could afford another ton. Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite; The radiators lose their temperature: How ill avail, on such a frosty night, The "short and simple flannels of the poor." Though in the ice-box, fresh and newly laid, The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep, No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid: We cannot cook again till coal is cheap. Can Morris-chair or papier-maché bust Revivify the failing pressure-gauge? Chop up the grand piano if you must, And burn the East Aurora parrot-cage! Full many a can of purest kerosene The dark unfathomed tanks of Standard Oil Shall furnish me, and with their aid I mean To bring my morning coffee to a boil. The village collier (flinty-hearted beast) Who tried to hold me up in such a pinch May soon be numbered with the dear deceased: I give him to the mercy of Judge Lynch. |