The disciple of Master Herrick returneth thanks for the gift of a band of pansies for his hat.
I.
Never poet
From Musaeus down,
Crowned with rose, or myrtle-wreath, or laurel,
Had of daintier hand
Dearer trophy!
Therefore (know it,
Castaly! and, Daphne's lover, quarrel!)
I for crown
Flout the bay and wear thy pansy-band,
Mistress Sophie.
II.
As these petals
Die not,
So the thought that settles
Softly in the purple petals
Fly not!
Half a memory, which a world of men
Can buy not,—
Half a prayer, that till we meet again
Thou sigh not!
LA BELLE TROMBONISTE.
How grave she sits and toots
In the glare!
From her dainty bits of boots
To her hair
Not the sign remotest shows
If she either cares or knows
How the beer-imbibing beaux
Sit and stare.
They're most prodigal with sighs,
Or they laugh;
Or they cast adoring eyes
As they quaff.
They exert their every wile
Her attention to beguile.
Do they ever win a smile?
Not by half!
She leans upon her chin
(Not a toot!),
While the leading violin
And the flute
Wail and plead in low duet
Till, it may be, eyes are wet.
She her trombone doth forget—
She is mute.
The music louder grows;
She's awake!
She applies her lips and blows—
Goodness sake!……
To think that such a peal
From such throat and frame ideal,
From such tender lips could steal—
Takes the cake!