Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold From Trinity's undaunted steeple, 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 And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 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 gnarled 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. 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, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stayed to list, A boxer Ægon, rough and merry, A Broadway, Daphnis, on his tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 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; And still the gathering larger grew, 1 And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 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! 1753 New forms may fold the speech, new lands So thought I, but among us trod And pushed him from the step I sat on. "Great Pan is dead!"--and all the people Went on their ways:—and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple. Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908) UPON LESBIA-ARGUING My Lesbia, I will not deny, And, though I am her closest friend I cannot cordially commend Her method of debating: Is singularly feminine. Her reasoning is full of tricks, I know no point to which she sticks, Broad, liberal views on men and things Some instance she has heard of; To Anthea The argument ad hominem Old Socrates, with sage replies To questions put to suit him, Would not, I think, have looked so wise He would more probably have bade Ah! well, my fair philosopher, So sweetly, that I much prefer To look at them than listen, Preach me your sermon: have your way, Alfred Cochrane [1865 1755 TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM (NEW STYLE) AM I sincere? I say I dote On everything that Browning wrote; I say and is it strictly true?- And I become, at her command, The Grand Old Man is far from grand; Nay! worse than that, I am so tame, Because She hates it. My taste in Art she hailed with groans, Our age distinctly cramps a knight; Heroes of old were luckier men She controverts it. Alfred Cochrane [1865 THE EIGHT-DAY CLOCK THE days of Bute and Grafton's fame, First heard your sounding gong proclaim Old days when Dodd confessed his guilt, When Goldsmith drave his quill, And genial gossip Horace built His house on Strawberry Hill. Now with a grave unmeaning face |