Gems In Verse

Red are the Hpo of my darling, my dear, Sweet are ttie lips of my own; Love like a beo at her budding mouth sips, Drunken with passion before ne has flown. But oh, and oh. Red líps will palé sorae day, While a true heart lasts for aye. Gray are the eyes of my darling, my dear, Bright are the eyes of my queen; Fond as the dreaming of tropical skies. Glad as the rivulet's midsummer sheen, But oh, and oh, Bright eyes will dim some day, While a true heart lasts for aye. Brown is this tress of my darling, my dear, Silken this tress of my fair; Brown with a hint of the sun's tenderness Twined in the strands of her beautif ui hair. But oh, and oh, Sweet locks will thin some day, While a true heart wears for aye. Praises belong to my darling, my dear, Love is but due to my sweet; So here I pluck from the garden of song This tiny blossom to throw at her feet. But oh, and oh. Beauty will fade some day, While a true heart lasts for aye. - George Horton. The Red, Red West. Tve traveled in heaps of countries and studied all kinds of art Till there isn't a eritie or connoisseur whose properly deemed so smart, And I'm free to say that the grand result of my explorations show That somehow paiñt gets redder the farther out west I go! I've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the orientáis serve. And I'vo feit the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate nerve; I've sampied your classic Massio under an arbor green, And I've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen. The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the frugal Dutch, The much praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised overmuch, The ale of dear old London and tho port of southern climes- All, ad infln., have I taken in a hundred thousand times. Yet, as I aforementioned, these other charms are naught Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the west is fraught; For art and nature are just the same in the land where the porker grows. And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out west one goes. Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so. And ninety per cent. of the laymen care less than the savants know- It answers every purpose that this is manifest: The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go o'ut westl Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies - No cot for me by the salmón sea that f ar to the southward lies; But away out west I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, Where I can paint without restraint creation redder stilll - Eugene Field. Do You Kemember? Do you remember how that night was sweet? You called it sweet and something more a9 well; The fine white moonbeams drifted at our feet, And nestled in each flower's trembling bell. ThO hollowed waves carne creeping to the beach. And broke there with a joyous sound at last. Do you remember how there was no speech? No need for that. Our heartbeats throbbed too fast. A small white falling star shot through the gray, You bid me "wish!" before it could depart; Do you remember how I answered, "Nay?" Because there was no wish lef t in my heart. - CoraFabbri. A Kothcrsome Business. Oh, this being in love is a bothersome business, It just keeps one in torment from niorndng tul night! Tho' I quarrel with Jack every minute I'm with him, I'm wretched whenever he's out of my sight; His name, tho' prosaio, it has but to be mentioned And my heart gives a jump, and- I'd perish bef ore I would own up to him- it stands still while I listen For his step on the walk or his riug at the door! I can settle to nothing - to readingnorsewing - Just for thinking of Jack! I don't flirt any more- Not because it is wrong, but because the plain truth is, What once was a pastime is now but a bore; For the rest of mankind, tho' they all were Apollos, I've no eyes and no ears, for alas! and alack! When a woman's in love the whole universe centers In some commonplace fellow like honest old Jack! For it's fact- and I know it- that Jack is no hero; He's about as unlike all the knights of romance That I've read of or dreamed of as any man going! How 'twas that he carne my girl's soul to uutrance I can't teil; I suppose, though, that shy rascal, Cupid, Just for spite, pulls the wool over each woman's eyes; At least once in her life, and an ev'ryday mortal Looks to her- for awhile- like a god in disKuise. The last man in the world to set up for au idol, You'd say, was my Jack. How it all carne about Is a marvel to me, who at Love and at lovers Have so long found it easy to neet and to flout. I pretend to be cold, and I'm high and I'm mighty With poor Jack, when at heart I'm as meek as a dove; But oh, does it most gladden or sadden or raadden A proudwoman to find that at last she'sin love? Unselfïsliness. Pluck the flower that blooms at thy door; Cherish the love Ihat the day may send; Cometh an hour when all thy store Vainly were offered for flower or friend. Gratef ully take what lif e ofïereth; Look to heaven, nor seek a reward. So shalt thou flnd, come Ufe, come death, Earth and sky are in sweet accord. - Louise Manning Hodgkins. Pegasus Hitched to a Perambulator. I thought I could be happy, If she'd consent to marriage; But now she calis me "Pappy," Makea me jog the baby carriage. There is a moral to this wail That must be plaln to all; But I haven't time to write it, For I hear the baby squall. - Smith, Qray & Co.'s Monthly. The Tribute of Silence. A poet read his verses, and of two Who listened, one spake naught but open praise; The other held his peace, but all hia faoe Was brightenod by the inner joy he knew. Two friends, long absent, met; and one had borne The avrf ui stroke and scath of blinding loss. Hand feil in hand; so knit they, like a cross; With no word uttered, heart to heart was sworn. A mother looked into her baby's eyes. As blue as heav'n and deep as nether sea. By what dim preseience, spirit wise, knew she Sueh soui's exehanges never more would rise? Oh, deep is silence - deep as human souls; Aye, deep as life, beyond all lead and line. And words are but the broken shells that shine Along the shore by which the ocean rolls. -James Buckham. Unforgotten. As some rare strain of an old poem strays Back from oblivion, and gladdens me, So steals upon my heart the memory Of yon and the old days. Days when we fasuioned out our lires' sweet scheme: You with ambitious hopes and lofty plots, And I gatlieriug the dear forgetmenots To wreathe a tuture dream. A Maytime, lilac blooms, and hum of bees, And birds' and breezes' blissful carolings. And all the springtime's fugitivo sweet thing3 Commingling eostasies, That once we shared, but ne'er again shall know. Save in the vague, mysterious realm of dreams: Where heart keeps sacred tryst with heart, and seems Lost in the loag ago. Today I know not where your footsteps wend; The world is large, and we, meandering However deviously, yet never bring Our paths to the same end. Where'er you fare, your steps lead to the heights Beyond my reach. I keep the valley path And glean the sweet, late summer's af termath, Fragraut with such delights As you would scarce count worth your gathering, You who must win upon your upland ways A hero's Uiurels or a poet's bays; Yet wliile I strive to sing I wonder if perchance some fledgling song Of mino may one day, fluttering tremulo'usly, Warbling in love-spun lays all blithefully The words unsaid so long. Come to your heart like a dove messenger, And rouse regret and waken memory; That song should be my dearest song to me, Jly hcart's iuterpreter. And oh, sometimes I dream that you hars passed Beyond tbe shadows to a bourn unknown; And then I dream you are my very own, My very own at last. Bat from tbe trysting place in fairy lands, The dreamer's yearnlng beart no trophy brings; Not e'en the ïnemory of a kiss tbat clings, Or toucb of loving bands. And still I joy in thus remembering yet, And sending af ter you tbis raveled strand Of song, half honey-svreet with memory, and Half bitter with regret. - Rosaline E. Jones. I Heilig What I Am; Ihou What Thou Art. When with thy life thou didst encompasa mine, And I beheld, as from an infinite height, Thy love stretch pure and beautiful as light, Throagh extreme joy I hardly could divine Whether my love of thee it was, or thine Which so my heart astonished with its might. But now, at length, familiar to the sight, So I can bear to look where planets shine, Ever more deep the wonder grovvs to be, That thou shouldst love me, while my love of thee Does of my very nature seem a part- So, often now, as from a dream, 1 start, To think that thou- even thou- thou lovest me, I being what I am; thou what thou art. -Philip Bourke Marston. The Kicker. I thought some one wonld kill hím, aa he kicked from inorn till night, Or that some mad wretoh would fill him f uil of buckshot out of spite; But I wondered when the barber gave him just the smoothest shave, And the waiter and the carver softest hunks for him woald save. And the porter bowed so meekly when he took the kicker's grip. And all cottoned to him weakly, though he never gave a tip. Trainmen watched with care the heating on the car he patronized, Xot a hackman essayed beating when his kick was realized; Eren newsboya grinned compliance when he qiuiied office rates. And fair women Bought alliance with thia moider of the fates. Like a mulé, by earnest kicking he had won all pleasant things. And in heaven you'll find him picking out the longest pair of wings. -A. T. Worden. Tlie Inch Before the Sa-. Onlj' frotn day to day The life of a wise man runs; What matter if seafious Par away Have glooms or have uouble suns? Like i tide orcr vork should rise- Each late: .va k u the best; Today is aki. „- in disguise, Today is the special test. Like a sawyer's uork is life; The present makes Uie flavr, Aud the only fleid for strife Is the inch before the saw. -John Boyle O'Reüly. Tliy Moment Is Small. Life is here, life is now, but the moment ia fleeting; Live it fully in courage, as if it were all; In the strength of thy manhood to make thy heart's beating Lead thee on to victory e'en though thou fall; Be content not to know; all the law of the sages Nothing better can teach; and the lesson of ages Is but this: Live today, for thy moment is small! -Arlo Bates. Too Late. Each on Lis own strict line wo move, And some flnd death ere they flnd love. So far apart their lives are tlirown Frorn the twin soul that halves their own. And soinetinies, by still harder fate, The lovers meet, but meet too late. Thy heart is mine. True, truel ah, true! Then, love, thy hand. Ah, no! Adieu! - Matthew Arnold. The Sermón. 5he sat before me all the service through. And looked so saintly, gentle, fair and good Twould make one better just to watch her face- Twould change the very sinner from hia mood. I listened all enraptured to the words The preacher spoke. X saw her eyes were wet. The sermón was an eloquent appeal. The text- well- really- I quite forget. -New York Herftld. This world haa work for us'; we iniiBt 'rcfuse no honest task nor uncongenial toil; TYax jnoi, yoivr feet to tire, nor robe to eoil, nor let your hands grow -ïrtiite for want oí use.- Thomas Ashe.