1895
Because I hold it sinful to despond
And will not let the bitterness of life
Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond
Its tumults and its strife;
Because I lift my head above the mist,
Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow,
By every ray and every raindrop kissed
That God's love cloth bestow,
Think you I find no bitterness at all?
No burden to be borne like Christian's pack?
Think you there are no tears ready to fall
Because I keep them back?
Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve,
To curse myself and all who love me? Nay,
A thousand times more good than I deserve
God gives me every day!
And in each one of these rebellious tears
Kept bravely back he makes a rainbow shine.
Grateful I take his slightest gift. No fears
Nor any doubts are mine.
Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past
One golden day redeems a weary year.
Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last
Will sound his voice of cheer.
—Celia Thaxter in New York Weekly.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Alone
1895
Since she went home
Longer the evening shadows linger here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The robin's note has touched a minor strain.
The old glad songs breathe a sad refrain,
And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain
Since she went home.
Since she went home
How still the empty rooms her presence blessed!
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed.
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The long, long days have crept away like years,
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears,
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears
Since she went home.
Since she went home
Longer the evening shadows linger here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The robin's note has touched a minor strain.
The old glad songs breathe a sad refrain,
And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain
Since she went home.
Since she went home
How still the empty rooms her presence blessed!
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed.
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest
Since she went home.
Since she went home
The long, long days have crept away like years,
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears,
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears
Since she went home.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Snow
1895
Myriad clouds, in swift succession blown,
Hang from the heavens, ponderous and gray.
In desolation lies the house of day,
Its azure architecture overthrown.
A wizard choir, the trees in terror moan,
And whilst the winds their wild, weird music play,
Earth from her ancient orbit seems to stray —
A frightened thing, bewildered and alone.
Then, like a swarm of white bees in the
air, the innumerable armies in the sky
Lay siege to the defenseless world below,
Building enchanted bastions everywhere —
Fantastic fortresses and turrets high,
Bright with the shining splendor of the snow!
— F. D. Sherman in Youth's Companion.
Myriad clouds, in swift succession blown,
Hang from the heavens, ponderous and gray.
In desolation lies the house of day,
Its azure architecture overthrown.
A wizard choir, the trees in terror moan,
And whilst the winds their wild, weird music play,
Earth from her ancient orbit seems to stray —
A frightened thing, bewildered and alone.
Then, like a swarm of white bees in the
air, the innumerable armies in the sky
Lay siege to the defenseless world below,
Building enchanted bastions everywhere —
Fantastic fortresses and turrets high,
Bright with the shining splendor of the snow!
— F. D. Sherman in Youth's Companion.
Friday, June 13, 2008
To a Distant Lady
1895
Bold sailors yet, through frozen seas,
Attempt to reach the northern pole.
They quit their friends and home and ease
To conquer the unconquered goal.
A less heroic errantry —
Silvia! It is my chief endeavor
To reach your heart, though round it I,
For all I know, may cruise forever.
I've now been held these winters two,
Bound in the ice of your disdain.
Could but I break a passage through
I'd not ask to come south again.
— New York Tribune.
Bold sailors yet, through frozen seas,
Attempt to reach the northern pole.
They quit their friends and home and ease
To conquer the unconquered goal.
A less heroic errantry —
Silvia! It is my chief endeavor
To reach your heart, though round it I,
For all I know, may cruise forever.
I've now been held these winters two,
Bound in the ice of your disdain.
Could but I break a passage through
I'd not ask to come south again.
— New York Tribune.
My Sweetheart
1895
Her eyes are made for loving; her lips are made for kissing;
Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide and seek.
Her form is like a seraph's; no angel grace is missing.
To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek.
She loves me to distraction; her every action shows it.
She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee,
Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it,
Because she calls me "papa," this little maid of three!
— Detroit Free Press.
Her eyes are made for loving; her lips are made for kissing;
Upon her cheeks the roses go playing hide and seek.
Her form is like a seraph's; no angel grace is missing.
To have her and to hold her I am her servant meek.
She loves me to distraction; her every action shows it.
She comes without the asking to sit upon my knee,
Nor cares a continental if everybody knows it,
Because she calls me "papa," this little maid of three!
— Detroit Free Press.
Independence Day
1895
Red as thy heroes' blood thine orient be!
Blue as their azure garb thy cloudless skies!
Their silv'ry swords as white, the stars that rise
To crown thine eye with quivering ecstasy!
Our banner's hues, the colors of the free,
Live in thy glories, clothe thee with their guise.
Faith, Hope and Love (the soul's fair trinity),
Lend thy soft vesture, heav'n's immortal dyes!
Who rants of creeds? Thy charter bears the seal
Of Catholic martyrs, for thy birthright slain.
Thy bulwark in dark days was Catholic steel;
Thy very stronghold, Catholic brawn and brain!
Shall bigots now impugn our loyalty?
Forbid, Columbia! We are leal to thee!
— Eleanor C. Donnelly in Donahoe's Magazine.
Red as thy heroes' blood thine orient be!
Blue as their azure garb thy cloudless skies!
Their silv'ry swords as white, the stars that rise
To crown thine eye with quivering ecstasy!
Our banner's hues, the colors of the free,
Live in thy glories, clothe thee with their guise.
Faith, Hope and Love (the soul's fair trinity),
Lend thy soft vesture, heav'n's immortal dyes!
Who rants of creeds? Thy charter bears the seal
Of Catholic martyrs, for thy birthright slain.
Thy bulwark in dark days was Catholic steel;
Thy very stronghold, Catholic brawn and brain!
Shall bigots now impugn our loyalty?
Forbid, Columbia! We are leal to thee!
— Eleanor C. Donnelly in Donahoe's Magazine.
The Day of Small Things
1895
No novels now, but novelettes,
Cigars give place to cigarettes,
Titanic "suns" to twinkling "stars,"
Pictures to sketches, "pomes" to "pars,"
Bonnets to things like housemaids' caps,
Banquets to tidbits, books to scraps,
And three volume novels to "short stories,"
Gibbon-like length and epic glories,
Like mammoths and cave bears, are gone,
Earth brings not back the mastodon.
The microbe takes its place. They kill us
Not by a giant, but bacillus.
Monsters, huge dragons, Laidly worms,
We fear no more. 'Tis unseen "germs"
That floor us in our life's full pride.
We want a "Jack the Germicide,"
And not the giant killer, now.
Behemoth and the big bowwow
Are gone, for aught not smart and little
We do not care one jot or tittle.
—Punch.
No novels now, but novelettes,
Cigars give place to cigarettes,
Titanic "suns" to twinkling "stars,"
Pictures to sketches, "pomes" to "pars,"
Bonnets to things like housemaids' caps,
Banquets to tidbits, books to scraps,
And three volume novels to "short stories,"
Gibbon-like length and epic glories,
Like mammoths and cave bears, are gone,
Earth brings not back the mastodon.
The microbe takes its place. They kill us
Not by a giant, but bacillus.
Monsters, huge dragons, Laidly worms,
We fear no more. 'Tis unseen "germs"
That floor us in our life's full pride.
We want a "Jack the Germicide,"
And not the giant killer, now.
Behemoth and the big bowwow
Are gone, for aught not smart and little
We do not care one jot or tittle.
—Punch.
The Rulers of Mankind
1895
What though the Sword, incarnadined and crowned,
Yoke to its car the servile feet of Fate;
What though the sophist Senate's pompous prate
Engross the hour and shake the world with sound.
Their carnal conquests can at best but found
Some tinsel towering transitory state
On force or fraud, whose summits, soon or late,
Fresh fraud or force will level with the ground.
It is the silent, eremitic mind,
Immured in meditation long and lone,
Lord of all knowledge, while itself unknown,
And in its cloister ranging unconfined,
That builds Thought's time long universal throne,
And with an unseen scepter rules Mankind.
— Alfred Austin in National Review.
What though the Sword, incarnadined and crowned,
Yoke to its car the servile feet of Fate;
What though the sophist Senate's pompous prate
Engross the hour and shake the world with sound.
Their carnal conquests can at best but found
Some tinsel towering transitory state
On force or fraud, whose summits, soon or late,
Fresh fraud or force will level with the ground.
It is the silent, eremitic mind,
Immured in meditation long and lone,
Lord of all knowledge, while itself unknown,
And in its cloister ranging unconfined,
That builds Thought's time long universal throne,
And with an unseen scepter rules Mankind.
— Alfred Austin in National Review.
The Garden of Dreams
1895
Who could dispense with that garden fair,
The lotus flowered garden of dreams?
Never a life is too homely or bare
To cherish a fragrant spot somewhere,
Budding to open in promises rare
In the magical gardens of dreams.
How could we live and not yield to despair,
Bereft of the garden of dreams?
The fever of living, the pangs of care,
The hopes deferred all the sorrows we bear
Forgotten are charmed to sleep in the air
Of the magical garden of dreams.
The coveted things of life are there,
In the tranquil garden of dreams.
Instead of our one little life of care,
There we live many lives ideal and fair,
Great aims uplift us, all things we dare
In the magical garden of dreams.
— Elizabeth Barton in Detroit Free Press.
Who could dispense with that garden fair,
The lotus flowered garden of dreams?
Never a life is too homely or bare
To cherish a fragrant spot somewhere,
Budding to open in promises rare
In the magical gardens of dreams.
How could we live and not yield to despair,
Bereft of the garden of dreams?
The fever of living, the pangs of care,
The hopes deferred all the sorrows we bear
Forgotten are charmed to sleep in the air
Of the magical garden of dreams.
The coveted things of life are there,
In the tranquil garden of dreams.
Instead of our one little life of care,
There we live many lives ideal and fair,
Great aims uplift us, all things we dare
In the magical garden of dreams.
— Elizabeth Barton in Detroit Free Press.
How Shall I Love You?
1895
How shall I love you? I dream all day,
Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way.
Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,
Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray —
These may not tell of the love of my life.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
How shall I love you? Love is the bread
Of life to a woman — the white and the red
Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed
On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!
The star in the storm and the strength in the strife.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
Is there a burden your heart must bear?
I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear.
Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?
Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there.
For grief or for glory — for death or for life,
So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.
— Frank L. Stanton in Ladies' Home Journal.
How shall I love you? I dream all day,
Dear, of a tenderer, sweeter way.
Songs that I sing to you, words that I say,
Prayers that are voiceless on lips that would pray —
These may not tell of the love of my life.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
How shall I love you? Love is the bread
Of life to a woman — the white and the red
Of all the world's roses, the light that is shed
On all the world's pathways, till life shall be dead!
The star in the storm and the strength in the strife.
How shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife?
Is there a burden your heart must bear?
I shall kneel lowly and lift it, dear.
Is there a thorn in the crown that you wear?
Let it hide in my heart till a rose blossom there.
For grief or for glory — for death or for life,
So shall I love you, my sweetheart, my wife.
— Frank L. Stanton in Ladies' Home Journal.
Hereditary
1895
Your strictures are unmerited;
Our follies are inherited;
Directly from our gram'pas they all came
Our defects have been transmitted,
And we should be acquitted
Of all responsibility and blame.
We are not depraved beginners,
But hereditary sinners,
For our fathers never acted as they should
'Tis the folly of our gram'pas
That continually hampers —
What a pity that our gram'pas wern't good
Yes, we'd all be reverend senators,
If our depraved progenitors
Had all been prudent, studious and wise;
But they were quite terrestrial,
Or we would be celestial —
Yes, we'd all be proper tenants for the skies.
If we're not all blameless sages,
And beacons to the ages,
And fit for principalities and powers;
If we do not guide and man it,
And engineer the planet,
'Tis the folly of our forefathers — not ours.
— Mildred Lancaster in Home and Country.
Your strictures are unmerited;
Our follies are inherited;
Directly from our gram'pas they all came
Our defects have been transmitted,
And we should be acquitted
Of all responsibility and blame.
We are not depraved beginners,
But hereditary sinners,
For our fathers never acted as they should
'Tis the folly of our gram'pas
That continually hampers —
What a pity that our gram'pas wern't good
Yes, we'd all be reverend senators,
If our depraved progenitors
Had all been prudent, studious and wise;
But they were quite terrestrial,
Or we would be celestial —
Yes, we'd all be proper tenants for the skies.
If we're not all blameless sages,
And beacons to the ages,
And fit for principalities and powers;
If we do not guide and man it,
And engineer the planet,
'Tis the folly of our forefathers — not ours.
— Mildred Lancaster in Home and Country.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
An Elizabethan Ballad
1895
Dildido, dildido,
O love, O love,
I feel thy rage rumble below and above!
In summer time I see a face,
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Like to a stoned horse was her pace.
Was ever a young man so dismayed?
Her eyes, like wax torches, did make me afraid!
Trop belle pour moi, voila trepas.
Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;
Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.
Mon dieu, aide moi!
That I with the primrose of my fresh wit
May stumble her tyranny under my feet.
He donc je seral un jeune roi!
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Trop belle pour moi, voila mon trepas.
-- Extract from the Works of Robert Greene, 1560-92.
Dildido, dildido,
O love, O love,
I feel thy rage rumble below and above!
In summer time I see a face,
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Like to a stoned horse was her pace.
Was ever a young man so dismayed?
Her eyes, like wax torches, did make me afraid!
Trop belle pour moi, voila trepas.
Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;
Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.
Mon dieu, aide moi!
That I with the primrose of my fresh wit
May stumble her tyranny under my feet.
He donc je seral un jeune roi!
Trop belle pour moi, helas, helas!
Trop belle pour moi, voila mon trepas.
-- Extract from the Works of Robert Greene, 1560-92.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Sentimental Song's Success
1895
"Did you ever hear anything as mushy as that?" asked the man at the minstrel show. He referred to a song about "papa" and "dear mamma" and "sweet little child" that was being done by a man with a soft, girlish voice.
He didn't like it at all, but the house demanded an encore, and a woman just in front of him had a handkerchief to her eyes.
"That's what people want," said the man who sat beside the complainant. "Just give them mother and baby and a waltz tune, and they're happy."
The lines of the song were almost idiotic in their strained attempt at tender sentiment, and the air seemed a variation of what has been heard in every minstrel "first part" for 20 years, but the people liked it just the same because it was so well sung and because "mamma" and "baby" were treated with such exceeding tenderness. — Chicago Record.
Table Mats
Here is a set of three tea table mats. The materials required are a quarter of a yard of linen lawn, some honiton lace braid and a few skeins of honiton lace silk. The quarter of a yard of linen will make three mats, each 9 inches square.
First overcast each piece of linen neatly all around the edge and baste upon this edge a row of the lobed braid, which, having scalloped edges, will make a pretty finish for the mats. Buttonhole this braid to the linen on the upper edge. Next baste a piece representing a spray of flowers upon each corner, and with the honiton lace silk buttonhole it upon the linen. In similar manner make a center design if you desire one, though this seems superfluous, as it never shows when the mat is in use. When the stitching is done, turn the mat, and with a pair of sharp embroidery scissors cut away the linen covered by the lace, being careful not to cut any of the lace stitches. When all are done, place the mats under a piece of muslin wrung out of borax water and iron until the muslin is dry. — Womankind.
"Did you ever hear anything as mushy as that?" asked the man at the minstrel show. He referred to a song about "papa" and "dear mamma" and "sweet little child" that was being done by a man with a soft, girlish voice.
He didn't like it at all, but the house demanded an encore, and a woman just in front of him had a handkerchief to her eyes.
"That's what people want," said the man who sat beside the complainant. "Just give them mother and baby and a waltz tune, and they're happy."
The lines of the song were almost idiotic in their strained attempt at tender sentiment, and the air seemed a variation of what has been heard in every minstrel "first part" for 20 years, but the people liked it just the same because it was so well sung and because "mamma" and "baby" were treated with such exceeding tenderness. — Chicago Record.
Table Mats
Here is a set of three tea table mats. The materials required are a quarter of a yard of linen lawn, some honiton lace braid and a few skeins of honiton lace silk. The quarter of a yard of linen will make three mats, each 9 inches square.
First overcast each piece of linen neatly all around the edge and baste upon this edge a row of the lobed braid, which, having scalloped edges, will make a pretty finish for the mats. Buttonhole this braid to the linen on the upper edge. Next baste a piece representing a spray of flowers upon each corner, and with the honiton lace silk buttonhole it upon the linen. In similar manner make a center design if you desire one, though this seems superfluous, as it never shows when the mat is in use. When the stitching is done, turn the mat, and with a pair of sharp embroidery scissors cut away the linen covered by the lace, being careful not to cut any of the lace stitches. When all are done, place the mats under a piece of muslin wrung out of borax water and iron until the muslin is dry. — Womankind.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
