On an Intaglio Head of Minerva 1691 Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx I thought the goddess cold, austere, Not made for love's despairs and blisses: Did Pallas wear her hair like that? Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses? The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She's older far than Trajan's Column! The magic hand that carved this face, Had lost its subtle skill and cunning. Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion. Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Laïs. But he is dust; we may not know His work outlives him,-there's his glory! Both man and jewel lay in earth The countless summers came and went, Years blotted out the man, but left Till some Visconti dug it up, To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom! O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: Has come, at last, to be rewarded. Who would not suffer slights of men, On such a bosom rise and fall so! Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907] THALIA A MIDDLE-AGED LYRICAL POET IS SUPPOSED TO BE TAKING FINAL LEAVE OF THE MUSE OF COMEDY. SHE HAS BROUGHT HIM HIS HAT AND GLOVES, AND IS ABSTRACTEDLY PICKING A THREAD OF GOLD HAIR FROM HIS COAT SLEEVE AS HE BEGINS TO SPEAK: I SAY it under the rose oh, thanks!-yes, under the laurel, We part lovers, not foes; we are not going to quarrel. We have too long been friends to spoil our kiss with reproaches. I leave you; my soul is wrung; I pause, look back from the portal— Ah, I no more am young, and you, child, you are immortal! Mine is the glacier's way, yours is the blossom's weatherWhen were December and May known to be happy together? Before my kisses grow tame, before my moodiness grieve you, While yet my heart is flame, and I all lover, I leave you. Pan in Wall Street 1693 So, in the coming time, when you count the rich years over, Think of me in my prime, and not as a white-haired lover, Fretful, pierced with regret, the wraith of a dead Desire Thrumming a cracked spinet by a slowly dying fire. When, at last, I am cold— years hence, if the gods so will it Say, "He was true as gold," and wear a rose in your fillet! Others, tender as I, will come and sue for caresses, Woo you, win you, and die mind you, a rose in your tresses! Some Melpomene woo, some hold Clio the nearest; You, sweet Comedy-you were ever sweetest and dearest! Nay, it is time to go. When writing your tragic sister Say to that child of woe how sorry I was I missed her. Really, I cannot stay, though "parting is such sweet sorrow" Perhaps I will, on my way down-town, look in to-morrow! Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1837-1907] PAN IN WALL STREET A. D. 1867 JUST where the Treasury's marble front Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Even there I heard a strange, wild strain The curbstone war, the auction's hammer; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-to-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned. 'Twas Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas,— From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times, to these Far shores and twenty centuries later. A ragged cap was on his head; But-hidden thus-there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarlèd horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them. 1695 Pan in Wall Street He filled the quivering reeds with sound, The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, Came beasts from every wooded valley; A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy! A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her,Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! |
