A line-o'-verse or two

THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR

“But bending low, I whisper only this:‘Love, it is night.’”– Harry Thurston Peck.Love, it is night. The orb of dayHas gone to hit the cosmic hay.Nocturnal voices now we hear.Come, heart’s delight, the hour is nearWhen Passion’s mandate we obey.I would not, sweet, the fact conveyIn any crude and obvious way:I merely whisper in your ear —“Love, it is night!”Candor compels me, pet, to sayThat years my fading charms betray.Tho’ Love be blind, I grant it’s clearI’m no Apollo Belvedere.But after dark all cats are gray.Love, it is night!

A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING

Now is my season of unrest,Now calls the forest, day and night;And by its pleasant spell obsessed,My wits go soaring like a kite.Forgive me if I be not bright,And pardon if I seem distrait;Wood-fancies put my wits to flight; —The woods are but a week away.Palleth upon my soul the jest,Falleth upon my pen a blight.The daily task has lost its zest,And everything is flat and trite.There’s nothing humorous in sight;Don’t mind if I am dull to-day.For every column is a fightWhen woods are but a week away.Woods in the robes of summer dressed —In greens and grays and browns bedight!A journey on a river’s breast,Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!..This end the Voyage of DelightWaits, in a little wood-bound bay,A bark canoe, all trim and tight; —The woods are but a week away!L’EnvoiDear Reader, there is much to write;I’ve many weighty things to say.But who can write when woods invite,And woods are but a week away!

TO THE SUN

(Variations on a theme by Gilbert.)Shine on, Old Top, shine on!Across the realms of spaceShine on!What though I’m in a sorry case?What though my collar is a wreck,And hangs a rag about my neck?What though at food I can but peck?Never you mind!Shine on!Shine on, Old Top, shine on!Through leagues of lifeless airShine on!It’s true I’ve no more shirts to wear,My underwear is soaked, ’tis true,My gullet is a redhot flue —But don’t let that unsettle you!Never you mind!Shine on! [It shines on.]

WHEN IT IS HOT

“And Nebuchadnezzar commanded the most mighty men that were in his army to bind Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, and to cast them into the burning fiery furnace.”

Consider Mr. Shadrach,Of fiery furnace fame:He didn’t bleat about the heatOr fuss about the flame.He didn’t stew and worry,And get his nerves in kinks,Nor fill his skin with limes and ginAnd other “cooling drinks.”Consider Mr. Meshach,Who felt the furnace too:He let it sizz nor queried “IsIt hot enough for you?”He didn’t mop his forehead,And hunt a shady spot;Nor did he say, “Gee! what a day!Believe me, it’s some hot.”Consider, too, Abed-nego,Who shared his comrades’ plight:He didn’t shake his coat and makeHimself a holy sight.He didn’t wear suspendersWithout a coat and vest;Nor did he scowl and snort and howl,And make himself a pest.Consider, friends, this trio —How little fuss they made.They didn’t curse when it was worseThan ninety in the shade.They moved about serenelyWithin the furnace bright,And soon forgot that it was hot,With “no relief in sight.”

THE SIMPLE, HEARTFELT LAY

Lives of poets oft remind usNot to wait too long for Time,But, departing, leave behind usObvious facts embalmed in rime.Poems that we have to ponderTurn us prematurely gray;We are infinitely fonderOf the simple, heartfelt lay.Whitman’s Leaves of Grass is odious,Browning’s Ring and Book a bore.Bleat, O bards, in lines melodious, —Bleat that two and two is four!Must we hunt for hidden treasures?Nay! We want the heartfelt straight.Minstrel, sing, in obvious measures —Sing that four and four is eight!Whitman leads to easy slumbers,Browning makes us hunt the hay.Pipe, ye potes, in simplest numbers,Anything ye have to say.

Q·HORATIVS·FLACCUS

B· L· T·SVO·SALVTEM

HAEC·CARMINA·MI·VETVLE·QVAEME·IVVENE·PARVM·DILIGENTERCOMPOSITA·EXCIDERVNT·SENEXREFICIENDA·LIMANDAQVE·IAMDVDVM·EXISTIMO·QVOD·NVNCDEMVM·FACTVM·EST·MIRARISFORTASSE·CVR·ANGLICE·RESCRIPSERIM·DESINES·MIRARICVM·DIXERO·SINE·FVCO·OPORTERE·POETA·ETIAM·VIVVS·NONSOLVM·ACCOMMODEM·MEA·OPERAAD·NORMAM·RECENTIORVM·TEMPORVM·SED·ETIAM·VTAR·NEMPEEA·LINGVA·QVAE·MAIORE·RESILIENDI·VT·ITA·DICAM·VIPRAEDITA·VIDEATVR·VELIMSINT·NOVI·VERSVS·TIBI·MVLTO·IVCVNDIORES·QVAM·PRISCA·EXEMPLASCRIBEBAM·HELNGONXVII·KAL·DEC

A NOTE FROM MR. FLACCUS

(Concerning the verses that follow.)

Dear B. L. T.:

You know my “pomes.” Well, old man, I was pretty young when I got them out of my system, and they seem rather raw to me now – I’m getting along, you know; so I’ve been thinking that I’d do ’em over again, file ’em down, as we used to say. Enclosed is the result of my labors.

I presume you are wondering why I have done them into United States; but you know perfectly well that a poet as much alive as I am to-day must not only keep up with the procession, but choose a thought-vehicle that has good springs to it – “beaucoup resiliency,” I s’pose you’d call it.

I hope you will like these new lines of mine better than their prototypes.

Yours regardfully,Q. H. F.

Helngon, November 15.

I

TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS

“Integer vitæ scelerisque purus.”Fuscus, old scout, if a guy’s on the levelThat’s all the arsenal he’ll have to tote;Up to St. Peter or down to the Devil,No need to carry a gun in his coat.Prowling around, as you know is my habit,I met a wolf in the forest, and heBeat it for Wolfville and ran like a rabbit.(He was some wolf, too, receive it from me.)Where I may happen to camp is no matter, —Paris, Chicago, Ostend or St. Joe, —Like the old dame in the nursery patterI shall make music wherever I go.Drop me in Dawson or chuck me in Cadiz,Dump me in Kansas or plant me in Rome, —I shall keep on making love to the ladies:Where there’s a skirt is my notion of home.

II

DUETTO

“Donec gratus eram.”HORACE:What time my Lydia owned me lordNo Persian king had much on Horace;And when you blew my bed and boardI was some sad, believe me, Mawruss.LYDIA:What time you loved no other She,Before this Chloë person signed you,I flourished like a green bay tree;Now I’m the Girl You Left Behind You.HORACE:This Chloë dame that takes my eyeHas so peculiar an alluranceI would not hesitate to dieIf she could cop my life insurance.LYDIA:Well, as for that, I know a gentWith whom it’s some delight to dally.With me he makes an awful dent;I’d perish once or twice for Cally.HORACE:Suppose our former love should goInto a new de luxe edition?Suppose I tie a can to Chlo,And let you play your old position?LYDIA:Why, then, you cork, you butterfly,You sweet, philandering, perjured villain,With you I’d love to live and die,Tho’ Cally boy were twice as killin’.

III

TO PYRRHA

“Quis multa gracilis.”What young tin whistle gent,Bedaubed with barber’s scent, —What cheapskate waits on youTo woo,O Pyrrha?For whom the puff and ratAnd transformation thatYou bought a year agoOr so,O Pyrrha?Peeved? Not a bit. Not II’m sorry for the guy.He draws a lovely limeThis time,O Pyrrha!I’ve dipped. The wet ain’t fine.Hung on the votive lineMy duds. The gods can seeI’m free.Eh, Pyrrha!

IV

TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS

“My sweetly-smiling, sweetly-speaking Lalage.”Fuscus, take a tip from me:This here job’s no bed of roses,Not the cinch it seems to be,Not the pipe that one supposes.What care I, tho’, if I mayLallygag with Lalage.Every day there’s ink to spill,Tho’ I may not feel like working.Every day a hole to fill;One must plug it – there’s no shirking.Oh, that I might all the dayLallygag with Lalage!People say, “Gee! what a snap,Turning paragraphs and verses.He’s the band on Fortune’s cap,Gets a barrel of ses-terces.”Let them gossip, while I playHide and seek with Lalage.People hand me out advice:“Hod, you’re doing too much drivel.Write us something sweet and nice.Stow the satire, chop the frivol.”But we have the rent to pay,Lalage; eh, Lalage?Ladies shy the saving senseWrite me patronizing letters;And there are the writing gents,Always out to knock their betters.What cares Flaccus if he mayLallygag with Lalage!No, old top, the writing lay’sNot a bed of sweet geranium.Brickbats mingle with bouquetsShied at my devoted cranium.Does it peeve yours truly? Nay.Nothing can – with Lalage.Paste this, Fuscus, in your hat:Not a pesky thing can peeve me.Take it, too, from Horace flat,She’s some gal, is Lal, believe me.So I coin this word to-day,“Lallygag” – from Lalage.

V

TO SYLVIA

Were I on the Latin lay,Were I turning Odes to-day,You would draw a gem from me,Little maid of mystery!In an Ode I’d love to spout you;I am simply bug about you.That’s the way! – the fairest peachIs the one that’s out of reach.I have toasted in my timeMany a peach (and many a lime),All of them, I must confess,Lacking your elusiveness.Lalage, my well known flame,Was considerable dame;Likewise Lydia and Phyllis,Chloë, Pyrrha, Amaryllis.Syl, if you had lived when they didYou’d have had those damsels faded.(That will give you, girl, some notionOf your Flaccus’s devotion.)Yep. If I were doing OdesIn my quondam favorite modes,With your image to qui-vive meI’d tear off some Ode, believe me!

A BALLAD OF MISFITS

“Chacun son métier:Les vaches seront bien gardées.”– La Fontaine.With skill for doing this or thatThe Lord each man endows.Some men are best for pushing pens,And some for pushing plows;And oh, the many many moreThat should be tending cows!Chacun son métier:Les vaches bien gardées.The ivory-headed serving maidWho poses as a “cook,”She hath a very bovine brain,She hath a bovine look.Oh, prithee, lead her to the kine,Oh, prithee get the hook!Chacun son métier:Les vaches bien gardées.The papering-and-painting gentsWhose work is never done,Who mess around your house untilYou pine to pull a gun,Who take three mortal days to doWhat should be done in one; —Chacun son métier:Les vaches bien gardées.The pestilential “pianiste,”The screechy singer too,The writer of the stupid bookAnd of the dull review,The actor who is greatest whenHe takes his exit cue; —Chacun son métier:Les vaches bien gardées.If every one were set to doThe task for which he’s fit,The writer of these trifling linesMight also have to quit.At tending cows the undersignedMight make an awful hit.Chacun son métier:Les vaches bien gardées.

AN ORIENTAL APOLOGY

When the hour was come Prince Chun arose,And balanced a shoestring on his nose.“From this some notion you will get,”Said he, “of China’s deep regret.”Now balancing upon his earA stein of foaming lager beer,“This attitude,” said he, “revealsHow very sorry China feels.”Then spinning top-like on his cue,“I can’t begin to tell to youThe deep remorse we suffer forThe death of your Ambassador.”Next, placing on his cue a plate,He said, as it ’gan to gyrate:“Nothing that’s happened in his reignHas caused my Emperor so much pain.”Upon his back he did declare,While juggling five balls in the air,“This attitude – the humblest yet —Expresses personal regret.”Last, spreading out a deck of cards —“Accept my Emperor’s regards.As our intentions were well meant,Pray overlook the incident.”

THE DAY OF THE COMET

(May 18, 1910.)Here it is – Eighteenth of May!Dawneth now the fatal dayWhen we take the awful veilOf the fearsome comet’s tail.Vale, Earth!What will happen, heaven knows;We can’t even guess, suppose,Hazard, speculate, surmise,Hint, conjecture, theorize,Or divine.Will we merely drill a holeThrough the trailing aureole?Or will the prediction direOf a world destroyed by fireBe fulfilled?Shall we crook our knees and prayCounting this the Judgment Day?Or preserve a cosmic ca’m,Caring not a cosmic damWhat may come?There’s the rub. If we but knewWe should know just what to do.Yes is just as good as NoTo all questions. Here we go! —Hang on tight!THE MORNING AFTER(May 19, 1910.)Here we are, friends, whole and haleIn or through the comet’s tail;And as far as we can say,Matters are about as theyWere before.Everything is much the sameAs before the comet came.Grasses grow and waters run —Nothing new beneath the sun —Same old sphere.Life is drab or life is gay,Thorny path or primrose way;All is common, all is strange;“Down the ringing grooves of change”Spins the world.Change but of a humdrum kind.What we vaguely had in mindWas some new sensation orThrill we never felt before.Vain desire!Nothing’s added to the stock:Same old shiver, same old shock.Round about the sun we’ll goIn the same old status quo.Awful bore!

A BALLADE OF IRRESOLUTION

Isolde, in the story old,When Ireland’s coast the vessel nears,And Death were fairer to behold,To Tristan gives “the cup that clears.”Straight to their fate the helmsman steers:Unknowing, each the potion sips…Comes echoing through the ghostly years“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”Ah, that like Tristan I were bold!My soul into the future peers,And passion flags, and heart grows cold,And sicklied resolution veers.I see the Sister of the ShearsWho sits fore’er and snips, and snips…Still falls upon my inward ears,“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”Hero of lovers, largely soul’d!Imagination thee enspheresWith song-enchanted wood and woldAnd casements fronting magic meres.Tristan, thy large example cheersThe faint of heart; thy story grips! —My soul again that echo hears,“Give me the philtre of thy lips!”L’EnvoiSweet sorceress, resolve my fears!He stakes all who Elysium clips.What tho’ the fruit be tares and tears! —Give me the philtre of thy lips!

TO WHAT BASE USES!

“Mrs. O – now takes her daily dip at 5 in the afternoon, instead of in the morning.”

– Newport Item.This is the forest primeval.This the spruce with the glorious plumeThat grew in the forest primeval.This is the lumberman big and brownedWho felled the spruce tree to the groundThat grew in the forest primeval.This is the man with the paper millWho bought the pulp that paid the billOf the husky lumberjack who choppedThe lofty spruce and its branches loppedThat grew in the forest primeval.This is the publisher bland and richWho bought the roll of paper whichWas made by the man with the paper millWho bought the pulp that paid the billOf the lumberjack with the murderous axWho felled the spruce with lusty hacksThat grew in the forest primeval.This is the youth with the writing toolWho does the daily Newport droolThat helps to make the publisher richWho ordered the stock of paper whichWas made by the man with the paper millWho bought the pulp that paid the billOf the husky Swede in the Joseph’s coatWho swung his ax and the tall spruce smoteThat grew in the forest primeval.This is the lady far from slimWho changed the hour of her daily swimAnd excited the youth with the writing toolWho does the Newport drivel and droolFor the prosperous publisher bland and fatWho ordered the virgin paper thatWas made by the man with the paper millWho bought the pulp that paid the billOf Ole Oleson the husky SwedeWho did a foul and darksome deedWhen he swung his ax with vigor and vimAnd smote the spruce tree tall and trimThat grew in the forest primeval.This is the shop girl Mag or LizWho daily devours what news there isConcerning the lady far from slimWho changed the time of her ocean swimAnd excited the youth with the writing toolWho does the daily Newport droolFor the pursy publisher bland and richWho bought the innocent paper whichWas made by the man with the paper millWho bought the pulp that paid the billOf the Swedish jack who slew the spruceThat came to a most ignoble use —The lofty spruce with the glorious plume —The giant spruce that used to loomIn the heart of the forest primeval.

HOW THEY MIGHT HAVE BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS

We sprang to the motor, I, Joris and Dirck.I snapped on my goggles and got to my work.“Hi, there!” yelled the cop in the helmet of white;“Let her flicker!” said Joris, and into the night,With a sneer at the speed laws, we hurtled hell-bentTo carry to Aix the good tidings from Ghent.The going was poor, we expected delay,And the usual livestock obstructed the way.At Boom we ran over a large yellow dog,At Düffeld a chicken, at Mecheln a hog;What else, we’d no time to slow down to inquire;At Aerschot, confound it! we blew out a tire.I jacked up the axle and ripped off the shoe,And snapped on an extra that promised to do.“All aboard!” I exclaimed as I cranked the machine,But something was wrong with the curst gasoline.“By Hasselt!” Dirck groaned, “We’ll be half a day late;We ought to have sent the good tidings by freight.”False prophet! I tinkered a minute or twoAnd again we were off like “a bolt from the blue.”We ate up the hills at a forty-mile clip,And skidded the turns like the snap of a whip,Till we dashed into Aix and were pinched by a copFor failing to slow when commanded to stop.“Now, wouldn’t that frost you!” said Joris, but weWhen we told the glad tidings were instantly free.The Mayor himself paid the ten dollars’ fine,And blew us to dinner with six kinds of wine,Which (the burgesses voted, by common consent)Was no more than their due that brought good news from Ghent.

THE DINOSAUR

Behold the mighty Dinosaur,Famous in prehistoric lore,Not only for his weight and strengthBut for his intellectual length.You will observe by these remainsThe creature had two sets of brains —One in his head (the usual place),The other at his spinal base.Thus he could reason a prioriAs well as a posteriori.No problem bothered him a bit;He made both head and tail of it.So wise he was, so wise and solemn,Each thought filled just a spinal column.If one brain found the pressure strongIt passed a few ideas along;If something slipped his forward mind’Twas rescued by the one behind;And if in error he was caughtHe had a saving afterthought.As he thought twice before he spokeHe had no judgments to revoke;For he could think, without congestion,Upon both sides of every question.Oh, gaze upon this model beast,Defunct ten million years at least.

A BALLADE OF CAP AND BELLS

When as a dewdrop joy enspheresThis pleasant planet, arched with blue,When every prospect charms and cheers,And all the world is fair to view —Who does not envy (have not you?)That mortal, by Thalia kissed,Who plies, in plumes of cockatoo,The blithesome trade of humorist?But when the wind of fortune veers,And blue-white skies turn leaden hue,When every pleasant prospect blearsAnd all the weary world’s askew —Who then would envy (if he knew)Jack Point the jester, glum and trist;Or ply, tho’ first of all the crew,The dismal trade of humorist?Ah, jocund trifles writ in tears,And merry stanzas steeped in rue!When all the world in drab appearsThe fool must still in motley woo.Tho’ bitter be the cud he chew,Still must he grind his foolish grist;Still must he ply, the long day through,The tragic trade of humorist!L’EnvoiLady of Tears, what pains perdueThe heart and soul of him may twistWho doth in cap and bells pursueThe glad sad trade of humorist!

GENTLE DOCTOR BROWN

It was a gentle sawbones and his name was Doctor Brown.His auto was the terror of a small suburban town.His practice, quite amazing for so trivial a place,Consisted of the victims of his homicidal pace.So constant was his practice and so high his motor’s gearThat at knocking down pedestrians he never had a peer;But it must, in simple justice, be as truly written downThat no man could be more thoughtful than gentle Doctor Brown.Whatever was the errand on which Doctor Brown was bentHe’d stop to patch a victim up and never charged a cent.He’d always pause, whoever ’twas he happened to run down:A humane and a thoughtful man was gentle Doctor Brown.“How fortunate,” he would observe, “how fortunate ’twas IThat knocked you galley-west and heard your wild and wailing cry.There are some heartless wretches who would leave you here alone,Without a sympathetic ear to catch your dying moan.“Such callousness,” said Doctor Brown, “I cannot comprehend;To fathom such indifference I simply don’t pretend.One ought to do his duty, and I never am remiss.A simple word of thanks is all I ask. Here, swallow this!”Then, reaching in the tonneau, he’d unpack his little kit,And perform an operation that was workmanlike and fit.“You may survive,” said Doctor Brown; “it’s happened once or twice.If not, you’ve had the benefit of competent advice.”Oh, if all our motormaniacs were equally humane,How little bitterness there’d be, or reason to complain!How different our point of view if we were ridden downBy lunatics as thoughtful as gentle Doctor Brown!

IN THE GALLERY

Weirder than the picturesAre the folks who comeWith their owlish strictures —Telling why they’re bum.Of all lines of babbleThis one has the call:Picture gallery gabbleIs the best of all.Literary fluffleNever, never cloys;Much has Mrs. GuffleAdded to my joys.For that chitter-chatterI delight to fall.But the picture patterIs the best of all.With the music highbrowsI delight to chat,Elevating my browsOver this and that.Music tittle-tattleNever fails to thrall.But the picture prattleIs the best of all.Sociologic rub-dubI delight to hear;Philosophic flub-dubTitillates my ear.Lovelier yet the spiffleIn the picture hall;For the picture piffleIs the best of all.Weirder than the picturesAre the folks who standPassing owlish strictures,Catalogue in hand.Hear the bunk they babbleUnder every wall.Yes. The gallery gabbleIs the best of all.

ALWAYS

“Il y a tous les jours quelque dam chose.”

– Abelard to Heloise.When Mrs. Mead was full of groans,When symptoms of all sorts assailed her,She sent for bluff old Doctor Jones,And told him all the things that ailed her.It took her nearly half the day,And when she finished out the string —“Ye-e-s, Mrs. Mead,” drawled Doctor J.,“There’s always some dam thing.”I like the line. It’s worth a tonOf optimistic commonplaces.It’s tonic, it refreshes one,It cheers, it stimulates, it braces.It summarizes things so well;It has the philosophic ring.Has Kant or Hegel more to tell?“There’s always some dam thing.”The dean of all the cheer-up schoolAdjures sad hearts to cease repining,And intimates that, as a rule,The sun behind the cloud is shining.“Into each life – ” You know the rest;No need to finish out the string.Longfellow boiled might be expressed,“There’s always some dam thing.”When things go wrong I do not readThe cheer-up poets, great or lesser.To soothe my soul I do not needThe Neo-Thought of Mr. Dresser.Sufficient for each working day,With all the worries it may bring,That helpful line by Doctor J.,“There’s always some dam thing.”

THE MODERN MARINER

A dry sheet and a lazy sea,And a wind so far from fastIt barely floats the owner’s flagThat flutters at the mast —That flutters at the mast, my boys;So while the sky is freeOf cloud we’ll take a yachtsman’s chanceAnd venture out to sea.The aneroid has dropped a tenth!Back, back across the barTo a harbor snug, and a long cold drink,And a big fat black cigar —A big fat black cigar, my boys;While, on an even keel,The Swedish chef out-chefs himselfIn getting up a meal.Give me a soft and gentle wind,A fleckless azure sky;I care not for your “snoring breeze”And dinners heaving high —And dinners heaving high, my boys,Make no great hit with me;So when the breeze begins to snoreWe’ll not put out to sea.There’s laughter in yon beach hotel,And summer girls a crowd;And hark the music, mariners,The band is piping loud!The band is piping loud, my boys,Bright eyes are flashing free.Come, fly the owner’s-absent flagAnd join the revelry.

A BALLADE OF THE CANNERY

What of the phrases, long decayed,Of paleologic pedigree,Musty, moldy, frazzled, and frayed —A doddering, dusty company?What shall be done with them? say we;And east and west the people bawl,Dump them into the Cannery! —Into the brine go one and all.“Grilled” and “lauded” and “scored” and “flayed,”“Common or garden variety,”“Wave of crime” and “reform crusade,”“Along these lines” and “it seems to me,”“Noted savant,” “I fail to see,”The “groaning board” of the “banquet hall,” —Masonjar ’em in “ghoulish glee” —Into the brine go one and all.“Succulent bivalves,” “trusty blade,”“Last analysis,” “practical-ly,”“Lone highwayman” and “fusillade,”“Millionaire broker and clubman,” “gee!”“In reply to yours,” “can such things be?”“Sounded the keynote” or “trumpet call,” —Can ’em, pickle ’em, one, two, three —Into the brine go one and all.L’EnvoiUnder the spreading chestnut treeStands the Cannery, all too small.The Canner a briny man is he,And into the brine go one and all.