QUAKERDOM. THE FORMAL CALL. THROUGH her forced, abnormal quiet Flashed the soul of frolic riot, And a most malicious laughter lighted up her And the stately mother found us prim enough to downcast eyes; All in vain I tried each topic, Ranged from polar climes to tropic, Every commonplace I started met with yes-or no replies. For her mother stiff and stately, As if starched and ironed lately Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded thus in curv ing palms; There she sat on guard before us, And in words precise, decorous, And most calm, reviewed the weather, and recited several psalms. How without abruptly ending Wealthy neighbors, was the problem which em ployed my mental care; When the butler, bowing lowly, "Madam, please, the gardener wants you," 86 Heaven, I thought, has heard my prayer. "Pardon me!" she grandly uttered; 'Surely, madam!" and, relieved, I turned to When the noonday woods are ringing, All the birds of summer singing, Suddenly there falls a silence, and we know a serpent nigh: So upon the door a rattle Stopped our animated tattle, scan the daughter's face: Ha! what pent-up mirth outflashes How the drill of Quaker custom yields to Na- Brightly springs the prisoned fountain When the stone that weighed upon its buoyant So the long-enforced stagnation Now imparted five-fold brilliance to its ever- Widely ranging, quickly changing, Unto end I listened, merely flinging in a casual Eloquent, and yet how simple! suit her eye. CHARLES G. HALPINE. THE CHESS-BOARD, My little love, do you remember, Ere we were grown so sadly wise, Those evenings in the bleak December, Curtained warm from the snowy weather, When you and I played chess together, Checkmated by each other's eyes? Ah! still I see your soft white hand Hovering warm o'er Queen and Knight; Brave Pawns in valiant battle stand; The double Castles guard the wings; The Bishop, bent on distant things, Moves, sidling, through the fight. Our fingers touch; our glances meet, Against my cheek; your bosom sweet Ah me! the little battle's done : This, this at least, if this alone: That never, never, nevermore, And eyes exchanging warmth with eyes, ROBERT BULWER LYTTON WHEN YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS. "WHEN your beauty appears, All bright as an angel new dropt from the skies SLY THOUGHTS. "I SAW him kiss your cheek !”. ""T is true. "O Modesty !". "Twas strictly kept: He thought me asleep; at least, I knew He thought I thought he thought I slept." THE KISS. COVENTRY PATMORE. 1. AMONG thy fancies tell me this: What is the thing we call a kiss? 2. I shall resolve ye what it is: It is a creature born and bred Between the lips all cherry red, By love and warm desires fed; Chor. And makes more soft the bridal bed. It is an active flame, that flies And charms them there with lullabies Chor. And stills the bride too when she cries. Chor. And here, and there, and everywhere. 1. Has it a speaking virtue? Part your joined lips, kiss ; 2. Yes. Do you but this: then speaks your Chor. And this love's sweetest language is. 1. Has it a body? 2. Ay, and wings, Chor. Love honey yields, but never stings. ROBERT HERRICK. Ne'er a ane hae I; Yet a' the lads they smile at me But whaur his hame, or what his name, Adapted by BURNS. KITTY OF COLERAINE. As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. "O, what shall I do now?'t was looking at you now! Sure, sure, such a pitcher I 'll ne'er meet again! 'T was the pride of my dairy: O Barney M'Cleary! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain. A kiss then I gave her; and ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'T was hay-making season - I can't tell the rea son Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY. THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE YORKSHIRE DIALECT. THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine: (Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will! When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between! An' aw durst n't look up in his face, Berose on him seein' my e'en. |