Who steals my verse steals trash, for, soothly,
he who runs may read,
But he who filches from me Bartlett leaves
me poor indeed.
I fill this cup to Bartlett up, and may he rest
in peace—
From Afric's sunny fountains to the happy
Isles of Greece.
Quotation! O my Rod and Staff, my Joy
sans let or end
With me abide, O handy guide, philosopher,
and friend.
Melodrama
R
If you want a receipt for a melodramatical,
Thrillingly thundery, popular show,
Take an old father, unyielding, emphatical,
Driving his daughter out into the snow;
The love of a hero, courageous and Hacketty;
Hate of a villain in evening clothes;
Comic relief that is Irish and racketty;
Schemes of a villainess muttering oaths;
The bank and the safe and the will and the forgery—
All of them built on traditional norms—
Villainess dark and Lucrezia Borgery
Helping the villain until she reforms;
The old mill at midnight, a rapid delivery;
Violin music, all scary and shivery;
Plot that is devilish, awful, nefarious;
Heroine frightened, her plight is precarious;
Bingo!—the rescue!—the movement goes snappily—
Exit the villain and all endeth happily!
Take of these elements any you care about,
Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout;
Put in the powder and leave out the grammar,
And the certain result is a swell melodrammer.
A Poor Excuse, But Our Own
(Why don't you ever write any child poetry?
—A MOTHER.)
My right-hand neighbour hath a child,
A pretty child of five or six,
Not more than other children wild,
Nor fuller than the rest of tricks—
At five he rises, shine or rain,
And noisily plays "fire" or "train."
Likewise a girl, aetatis eight,
He hath. Each morning, as a rule,
Proudly my neighbour will relate
How bright Mathilda is at school.
My ardour, less than half of mild,
Bids me to comment, "Wondrous child!"