Habitat, Paris,--that is where She resided for change of air;
Aetat twenty; complexion fair;
Rich, good looking, and debonnaire;
Smarter than Jersey lightning. There!
That's her photograph, done with care.
In Paris, whatever they do besides, EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES!
Moire antiques you never meet Sweeping the filth of a dirty street But every woman's claim to ton Depends upon The team she drives, whether phaeton, Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, Should have a team that ought to be Equal to any in all Paris!
"Bring forth the horse!" The commissaire Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair Leading an equipage rich and rare.
Why doth that lovely lady stare?
Why? The tail of the off gray mare Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair!
Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, Scarcely showing as much back hair As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,"--and there, Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare.
That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, But did as well-bred Frenchmen do:
Raised his shoulders above his crown, Joined his thumbs with the fingers down, And said, "Ah, Heaven!"--then, "Mademoiselle, Delay one minute, and all is well!"
He went--returned; by what good chance These things are managed so well in France I cannot say, but he made the sale, And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.
All that is false in this world below Betrays itself in a love of show;
Indignant Nature hides her lash In the purple-black of a dyed mustache;
The shallowest fop will trip in French, The would-be critic will misquote Trench;
In short, you're always sure to detect A sham in the things folks most affect;
Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, And you always wink with your weakest eye:
And that's the reason the old gray mare Forever had her tail in the air, With flourishes beyond compare, Though every whisk Incurred the risk Of leaving that sensitive region bare.
She did some things that you couldn't but feel She wouldn't have done had her tail been real.
Champs Elysees: time, past five.
There go the carriages,--look alive!
Everything that man can drive, Or his inventive skill contrive,--Yankee buggy or English "chay,"
Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe, A desobligeante quite bulky (French idea of a Yankee sulky);
Band in the distance playing a march, Footman standing stiff as starch;
Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch-Bishops, and there together range Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange Way these soldier-chaps make change), Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, With unpronounceable awful names;
Laces tremble and ribbons flout, Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout--Bless us! what is the row about?
Ah! here comes Rosy's new turnout!
Smart! You bet your life 'twas that!
Nifty! (short for magnificat).
Mulberry panels,--heraldic spread,--Ebony wheels picked out with red, And two gray mares that were thoroughbred:
No wonder that every dandy's head Was turned by the turnout,--and 'twas said That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar), A very good whip (as Russians are), Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car, Entranced, the reader will understand, By "ribbons" that graced her head and hand.
Alas! the hour you think would crown Your highest wishes should let you down!
Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance, Your victor's car to an ambulance, From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance!
(And these things happen, even in France.)
And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, The cynosure of every eye, Saw to her horror the off mare shy, Flourish her tail so exceedingly high That, disregarding the closest tie, And without giving a reason why, She flung that tail so free and frisky Off in the face of Caskowhisky.
Excuses, blushes, smiles: in fine, End of the pony's tail, and mine!
ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES
(SEQUOIA GIGANTEA)
Brown foundling of the Western wood, Babe of primeval wildernesses!
Long on my table thou hast stood Encounters strange and rude caresses;
Perchance contented with thy lot, Surroundings new, and curious faces, As though ten centuries were not Imprisoned in thy shining cases.
Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days Of grateful rest, the week of leisure, The journey lapped in autumn haze, The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, The morning ride, the noonday halt, The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, And then the dim, brown, columned vault, With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing.
Once more I see the rocking masts That scrape the sky, their only tenant The jay-bird, that in frolic casts From some high yard his broad blue pennant.
I see the Indian files that keep Their places in the dusty heather, Their red trunks standing ankle-deep In moccasins of rusty leather.
I see all this, and marvel much That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able To keep the company of such As throng thy friend's--the poet's--table:
The latest spawn the press hath cast,--The "modern popes," "the later Byrons,"--Why, e'en the best may not outlast Thy poor relation--Sempervirens.
Thy sire saw the light that shone On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, On many a royal gilded throne And deed forgotten in the present;
He saw the age of sacred trees And Druid groves and mystic larches;
And saw from forest domes like these The builder bring his Gothic arches.
And must thou, foundling, still forego Thy heritage and high ambition, To lie full lowly and full low, Adjusted to thy new condition?
Not hidden in the drifted snows, But under ink-drops idly spattered, And leaves ephemeral as those That on thy woodland tomb were scattered?
Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speak The moral of thy simple story:
Though life is all that thou dost seek, And age alone thy crown of glory, Not thine the only germs that fail The purpose of their high creation, If their poor tenements avail For worldly show and ostentation.
LONE MOUNTAIN
(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO)
This is that hill of awe That Persian Sindbad saw,--The mount magnetic;
And on its seaward face, Scattered along its base, The wrecks prophetic.
