Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk!
They scent these old halls even yet;
I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk
They glide in the grave minuet.
The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride,
Long, long in the chest have they lain;
Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~Hours.~
Matchless, melting eyes of brown,
This is but a cheerless town;
You should beam 'neath warmer skies,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Yours should be a land of flowers,
Perfumed air and sunny hours;
Eastern fires within you rise,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,
Burning mystically bright,
Prithee here no longer stay,
You will burn my heart away.
W. Hamilton Literary Monthly.
~A Fickle Heart.~
A fickle heart! Let subtler poets sing
Of changeless love and all that kind of thing,
Of hearts in which a passion never dies—
My heart's as fickle as the summer skies
Across whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.
Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring.
I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string,
Though each unto my questioning touch replies
A fickle heart.