The Graces, on a summer day,

Grew serious for a moment; yea,

They thought in rivalry to trace

The outline of a perfect face.

Each used a rosebud for a brush,

And, while it glowed with sunset's blush,

Each painted on the evening sky,

And each a star used for the eye.

They finished. Each a curtaining cloud

Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud:

"Behold, we three have drawn the same,

From the same model!" Ah, her name?

I know. I saw the pictures grow.

I saw them falter, fade, and go.

I know the model. Oft she lures

My heart. The face, my sweet, was yours.

The notes still float upon the air,

Just as they did that night.

I see the old piano there,—

Oh, that again I might!

Her young voice haunts my eager ear;

Her hair in the candle-light

Still seems an aureole,—a tear

Is my spectroscope to-night.

I hear her trembling tell me "No,"

And I know that she answered right

But I throw a kiss to the stars, and though

She be wed she will dream to-night.

Over the green fields, over the snow,

Something I send thee, something I throw.

No one can guess it; no one can know.

Light as a feather, quick as the eye;

Thin as a sunbeam, deep as the sky;

Worthless, but something a queen could not buy.

Ah, you have caught it, love! How do I know?

Sweet, there are secrets lost ages ago.

Lovers learn all of them. Smile not,—'tis so.

Before her mirror, robed in spotless white,

She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face,

Amazed at its new loveliness and grace.

Smiling and blushing at the pretty sight,

So fraught is she with innocent delight,

She feels the tender thrill of his embrace

Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;

Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.

Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;

She turns from it with petulant disdain,

And tries to read the future,—but in vain.

Blank are its pages from the first to last.

She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room

Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.

Give you a problem for your midnight toil,—

One you can study till your hair is white

And never solve and never guess aright,

Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil?

O Sage, I give one that will make you moil.

Just take one weakling little woman's heart.

Prepare your patience, furbish up your art.

How now? Did I not see you then recoil?

Tell me how many times it has known pain;

Tell me what thing will make it feel delight;

Tell me when it is modest, when 'tis vain;

Tell me when it is wrong and when 'tis right:

But tell me this, all other things above,—

Can it feel, Sage, the thing that man calls "Love"?

A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek,

Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy,

When love receives a message that the coy

Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak

From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak

That loses in one avalanche its cloy

Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ

Its hidden store of blushes; and they wreak

Destruction, as they crush my aching heart,—

Destruction, wild, relentless, and as sure

As the poor Alpine hamlet's; and no art

Can hide my agony, no herb can cure

My wound. Her very blush says, "We must part."

Why was it always my fate to endure?

She gave me a rose from her hair,

And she hid her young heart within it.

I could hardly speak from despair,

Till she gave that rose from her hair,

And leaned out over the stair

With a blush as she stooped to pin it.

She gave me a rose from her hair,

And she hid her young heart within it.

When I told her my love,

She was maidenly shy,

And she bit at her glove.

I gave Cupid a shove;

Yes, I begged him to try,

When I told her my love

What was she thinking of

As she uttered that

My lady, you blushed.

Was my love a surprise?

How quickly they hushed!

A curl of yours brushed

All else from my eyes.

My lady, you blushed.

You say that I gushed,

And they all heard my sighs?

How quickly they hushed!

Your roses were crushed;

N'importe wherefores and whys.

My lady, you blushed.

Come, muster your pleasantest smile, my dear,

And put on your prettiest gown.

Forget about Jack for a while, my dear,

His lordship has just come to town.

He's come here to get him a wife, my dear,

And you have been put up for sale

With a marvellous income for life, my dear,

To balance your side of the scale.

His lordship is feeble and old, my dear,—

What odds? All the sooner he'll die.

And he has a sore need of your gold, my dear:

See the good you can do if you'll try.

And then a real lady you'll be, my dear,

Not only by nature but name;

Mamma'll be so proud,—you can see, my dear,

No one thinks it, as you do, a shame.

So bend your proud head. Are you faint, my dear?

Keep the tears back, be buoyant and brave.

Keep that pose! Now a portrait we'll paint, my dear,

To be called "The American Slave."

Sell her,—that's right! She is young, she is fair;

There's the light of the sun in the coils of her hair.

And her soul is as white as the first flakes of snow

That are falling to-night. 'T is a bargain, a "go"

Sell her,—that's right!

Sell her,—that's right! For a bag full of gold.

Put her down in your ledger, and label her "Sold"

She's only a beauty with somebody's name,

And the Church for a pittance will wash out the shame.

Sell her,—that's right!

Hasten on! The mad moonlight is beaming

On the hatred and love 'twixt us two;

And it beams on the maid who is dreaming,

And the grave made for me or for you.

Time and place,—love and life in the balance,

Fear and hope in the glance of your eye.

Draw your blade! Forget not we are gallants

Who can laugh at our fate as we die.

On your guard! There'll be blood on the metal

Ere she wakes from her innocent dreams;

There's a long list of kisses to settle,

And some love sighs and death sighs, it seems.

Bare your arm! Strike for life and the maiden!

Take that! You are cautious, I fear

Speed the blow,—'tis with happiness laden

For him who does not remain here

That and that! I am wounded,—it's over

Those kisses were destined for you;

But now she is yours and you love her,

Go tell her that I loved her too

Is it dew on the rose?

'T is the same that I gave him

Last night when I chose

To warn him and save him;

That he pinned on his breast

With a smile at his danger,

And a smile, not in jest,

That was sweeter and stranger

Here are footprints of foes!

Oh, my heart!--I can feel

It is blood on the rose

And a sliver of steel.

I strolled the streets in quest of any love,

In old Madrid long centuries ago;

I caught the perfume of a scented glove,

I saw a sweet face in a portico.

She laughed—then paled. She leaned out; whispered, "Fly!"

And then I felt the sting of steel, the hiss

Of curses in my ear, and knew that I

Had forfeited my life—and lost a kiss.

Ten paces—one, two, three, and fire!

Two gallants have their heart's desire.

One of them dies, the other laughs;

The seconds smile, the doctor chaffs.

A woman, smiling, dreams she's wed

To—hush, to the very one that's dead.

The snow came softly, silently, down

Into the streets of the dark old town;

And lo! by the wind it was swept and piled

On the sleeping form of a beggar-child.

It kissed her cheek, and it filled her hair

With crystals that looked like diamonds there;

And she dreamed that she was a fair young bride

In a pure white dress by her husband's side.

A blush crept over her pale young face,

And her thin lips smiled with a girlish grace;

But the old storm-king made his boast aloud

That his work that night was weaving a shroud.

Love has come back—ah me, the joy!—

Greater than when Love began

To wound my heart. The jocund boy!

Love has come back a gray-haired man.

His eyes are red with tears of woe,

His cheeks are pale, and his heart is sore;

But Love has come back at last, and, oh!

Love will be faithful evermore.

My thoughts are gliding down the stream,

Ah, faster than the river flows;

And idly in my heart I dream

Of islands where the lotus grows.

I fear not rapids, waterfall,

Or whirlpool leading down to death,

If love but my tired heart enthrall,

And I may sip a woman's breath.

I care not what may be my fate.

Roll on, mad river, to the sea;

Drown all ambition, pride, and hate,—

But leave one woman's love to me.

I heard her song,

Low in the night,

From out her casement steal away,

Nor thought it wrong

To steal a sight

Of her—and lo! she knelt to pray.

I heard her say,

"Forgive him, Lord;

Such as he seems he cannot be."

I turned away,

Myself abhorred.

She prayed—and oh! she prayed for me.

Sweet Phyllis, maid of yesterday,

Come down from out that frame,

And tell me why you looked so gay—

Likewise your other name.

Had bold Sir Plume confessed his love

And asked you if you'd wed?

And had he called you "Lovey-dove"?

And how long are you dead?

Where did you get that wondrous gown,

Those patches, and that hair?

And how were things in London town

The last time you were there?

And did you die a maid or wife,

Your husband lord or knave?

And how did you like this jolly life?

And how do you like the grave?

Under my casement, as I pray,

My lover sings my cares away

With many a half-forgotten lay.

He leans against the linden-tree,

And sings old songs of Arcady

That he knows well are loved by me.

Half through the night the sweet strains float

Like wind-blown rose-leaves, note by note,

Over the great wall and the moat,

Up to my window, till they teem

Into my soul, and almost seem

To be there even when I dream.

And his heart trembling beats with bliss

If I but throw him one small kiss

Just as I now throw this, and this

Poor little rose, I pity you—

Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity—

Tortured an evil hour or two,

Just to adorn a wilful beauty.

I know her well, too well, alas!

(Just watch the fairy as she dances.)

She wears my heart—but let that pass;

It's dead: she killed it with her glances.

Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,—

To be despised when you are faded;

Yet she's an angel—too divine

To be by you or me upbraided.

A lady combed her silken hair.

None but a looking-glass would dare

To gaze on such a scene.

The blushes thronged her dimpled cheek;

They coursed upon her shoulders, eke,

And the white neck between.

And she was thinking then, I trow,

Of one who, in a whispered vow

Beneath the budding elm,

Had told her they would sail their barque

On lakes where pale stars pierced the dark,

With Cupid at the helm.

Anon, a faint smile pursed her lips

And shook her dainty finger-tips,

As breezes shake the boughs;

And then a quick, impetuous frown

Came gathering from her ringlets down,

And perched upon her brows.

Ah, she was thinking then, I ween,

Of me, poor clumsy dunce, who e'en

Had torn her silken dress.

I waltzed too near her at the ball;

Her beauty dazed me—that was all;

I felt a dizziness.

"Oh, Mistress Beauty," said my sigh,

"I'd laugh to scorn all other blisses,

If you and I might live and die

Together on such fare as kisses.

"Your kirtle would not be of silk,

The band around it but torn leather.

I think our wine would be plain milk;

I think we'd oft see stormy weather.

"But, oh, there are some things in life

Worth more to men than fame or money;

And one of them's a sweet young wife,

So pure, so honest, and so bonnie."

My soul feels refreshed, like a rose kissed by dew,

When waking I know I've been dreaming of you.

They thought I was mad. Ah, my sweet, if they knew

That my malady simply was dreaming of you!

I've one wish. 'Tis to sleep all the long ages through

By your side, you my bride, and I dreaming of you.

Now, all you pretty maids in town,

Take heed of my sad plight.

I've lost a kiss; I'll give a crown

To get it back to-night.

I threw it, poet-like, I own,

Up to a silvery star;

I must confess I might have known

I could not throw so far.

But, oh, surprise! It circled round,

And sank as though 't were laden

With love—when almost to the ground

'T was caught by some young maiden.

And that young maid I wish to find.

I've lost a kiss, alack!

It is not hers. She'll not be kind

Unless she give it back.

What are the charms of the sea?

Oh for an hour of the city!

What are the dull waves to me?

Can they say anything witty?

What do they care for my lips?

Why did I come? It's a pity!

Nothing but water and ships,

And Jack far away in the city.

Oh for one ride in the park,

With Jack humming bars from a ditty;

Kissing me (when it grows dark).

Fy! Oh—heigho, for the city!

Fresh, fragrant, tempting, balmy, red—

What fool would send them back?

Why do I wish that I were dead,

With all these jacks from Jack?

Why do I bite my lips and frown,

Tear buttons off my sacque,

When, just returning to the town,

I get these jacks from Jack?

Alas, for pleasure's giddy whirl,

For summer lost, alack!

He's off to see some other girl;

That's why mere jacks from Jack.

Hyacinths, tenderly sweet,

Is it life that you ask in your prayer?

Ah, I would die at her feet,

If I could be one of you there.

There on her billowy breast,

So near to her innocent heart,

That its beating would lull me to rest,

And to dream I should never depart.

Sighing are you for the stars?

Look in the depths of her eyes.

Is there a gem of the Czar's

So much like those gems of the skies?

Is it the dew that you miss?

Hyacinths, hyacinths, wait.

Soon she will give you a kiss.

Oh, how I envy your fate!

Light as the waves foaming white on the bar,

We dance to the mandolin, harp, and guitar;

One, two, three, waltzing we glide round the room,—

Would you were bride, and ah, would I were groom!

On all the seashore none fairer than you;

What but adore you could any one do?

Cheeks like the pink of an evening sky,

Eyes that might bid a man laughingly die.

Ears like the shells from the Indian sea,

Teeth like white buds on a young apple-tree,

Throat like a lily bent heavy with dew,

Arms just as white and as lily-like too.

Lips that would tempt—ah! you'll pardon me now,

Being so near them suggests, you'll allow,

That the happiest thing e'er a mortal could do,

Would be to be ever thus waltzing with you.

There's a sparkle in her eye

That no millionnaire can buy.

If they think so, let them try—

She's divine.

There's a blush upon her cheek

Like the peach-tree's blossom, eke,

Like red willows by the creek,

Or like wine.

She has roses in her hair.

It was I who put them there.

Really, did I ever dare—

Is she mine?

Or is it all a dream,—

Idle poet's empty theme

Put in words that make it seem

Superfine?

No; for see upon her hand

There's a little golden band,—

Filigree work, understand,

Like a vine;

And a perfect solitaire

Fits upon it. The affair

Cost two hundred. I don't care!

She is mine.