A PORTRAIT

He is to weet a melancholy carle: Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, As hath the seeded thistle, when a parle It holds with Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air; Thereto his beard had not begun to bloom.

No brush had touched his cheek, or razor sheer; No care had touched his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.

Ne cared he for wine, or half and half; Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl; And sauces held he worthless as the chaff; He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wa.s.sail-bowl: Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl; Ne with sly lemans in the scorner's chair; But after water-brooks this pilgrim's soul Panted and all his food was woodland air; Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.

The slang of cities in no wise he knew, _Tipping the wink_ to him was heathen Greek; He sipped no "olden Tom," or "ruin blue,"

Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek By many a damsel brave and rouge of cheek; Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat, Nor in obscured purlieus would be seek For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat, Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.

_John Keats._

ANNABEL LEE

'Twas more than a million years ago, Or so it seems to me, That I used to prance around and beau The beautiful Annabel Lee.

There were other girls in the neighborhood But none was a patch to she.

And this was the reason that long ago, My love fell out of a tree, And busted herself on a cruel rock; A solemn sight to see, For it spoiled the hat and gown and looks Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

We loved with a love that was lovely love, I and my Annabel Lee, And we went one day to gather the nuts That men call hickoree.

And I stayed below in the rosy glow While she shinned up the tree, But no sooner up than down kerslup Came the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And the pallid moon and the hectic noon Bring gleams of dreams for me, Of the desolate and desperate fate Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And I often think as I sink on the brink Of slumber's sea, of the warm pink link That bound my soul to Annabel Lee; And it wasn't just best for her interest To climb that hickory tree, For had she stayed below with me, We'd had no hickory nuts maybe, But I should have had my Annabel Lee.

_Stanley Huntley._

HOME SWEET HOME WITH VARIATIONS

Being suggestions of the various styles in which an old theme might have been treated by certain metrical composers.

FANTASIA

I

_The original theme as John Howard Payne wrote it:_

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!

A charm from the skies seems to hallow it there, Which, seek through the world, is not met with elsewhere.

Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!

There's no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!

The birds singing gaily that came at my call!

Give me them! and the peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home! Sweet, Sweet Home!

There's no place like Home!

II

(_As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped it up in variations._)

('Mid pleasures and palaces--)

As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, Though we wander on gusts of a G.o.d's breath, shaken and shifted, The salt of us stings and is sore for the sobbing seas.

For home's sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor scorches, Nor elsewhere than this.

(An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain--)

For here we know shall no gold thing glisten, No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine; Nor love lower never an ear to listen To words that work in the heart like wine.

What time we are set from our land apart, For pain of pa.s.sion and hunger of heart, Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, Or sing at the Cytherean's shrine.

(Variation: An exile from home--)

Whether with him whose head Of G.o.ds is honored, With song made splendent in the sight of men-- Whose heart most sweetly stout, From ravishing France cast out, Being firstly hers, was hers most wholly then-- Or where on shining seas like wine The dove's wings draw the drooping Erycine.

(Give me my lowly thatched cottage--)

For Joy finds Love grow bitter, And spreads his wings to quit her, At thought of birds that twitter Beneath the roof-tree's straw-- Of birds that come for calling, No fear or fright appalling, When dews of dusk are falling, Or daylight's draperies draw.

(Give me them, and the peace of mind--)

Give me these things then back, though the giving Be at cost of earth's garner of gold; There is no life without these worth living, No treasure where these are not told.

For the heart give the hope that it knows not, Give the balm for the burn of the breast-- For the soul and the mind that repose not, Oh, give us a rest!

III

(_As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of a western gentleman in a red shirt._)

Brown o' San Juan, Stranger, I'm Brown.

Come up this mornin' from 'Frisco-- Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.

Be'n a-knockin' around, Fer a man from San Juan, Putty consid'able frequent-- Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!

Right thar lies my home-- Right thar in the red-- I could slop over, stranger, in po'try-- Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace, Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho.

Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London, Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.