The lullaby of surf on shingle!
Then let's remain to laugh and laze,
Where light and air enjoyment heighten —
Too short the hours, too few the days,
We pass with merry Doctor Brighton!
LIZZIE
PAINTED BY LESLIE
O, WHO can paint the picture of my pet?
As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels,
Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals
'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette.
A soft white robe, a broidered chemisette
Scarce veils her rounded bosom, as it steals
A subtle charm it only half reveals —
As sweet and modest as the violet!
A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey,
Across the golden sunshine of her smile.
Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey,
Her dimples even iron hearts beguile —
A dainty despot on a throne of hay,
Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!
A MARLOW MADRIGAL
O, BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair,
And Quarry Woods are green,
And pure and sparkling is the air,
Enchanting is the scene!
I love the music of the weir,
As swift the stream runs down,
For, O, the water's deep and clear
That flows by Marlow town!
When London's getting hot and dry,
And half the Season's done,
To Marlow you should quickly fly,
And bask there in the sun.
There pleasant quarters you may find —
The "Angler" or the "Crown"
Will suit you well, if you're inclined
To stay in Marlow town.
I paddle up to Harleyford,
And sometimes I incline
To cushions take with lunch aboard,
And play with rod and line.
For in a punt I love to laze,
And let my face get brown;
And dream away the sunny days
By dear old Marlow town!
I go to luncheon at the Lawn,
I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;
I headers take at early dawn,
I list to All Saints' chime.
And in the River, flashing bright,
Dull Care I strive to drown —
And get a famous appetite
At pleasant Marlow town!
So when, no longer, London life
You feel you can endure;
Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,
And try the "Marlow-cure"!
You'll smooth the wrinkles on your brow
And scare away each frown —
Feel young again once more, I vow,
At quaint old Marlow town!
Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,
And wandered o'er the leas;
And sung and drifted in his boat
Beneath the Bisham trees.
So let me sing, although I'm no
Great poet of renown —
Of hours that much too quickly go,
At good old Marlow town!
IN ROTTEN ROW
A WAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom,
Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom;
The golden laburnum in gardens is gay,
The windows are bright with their floral display;
The air is delightful, and warm is the sun,
The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won.
Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark,
And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park —
So now is the time when you all ought to go,
And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!
For only a penny I sit in the shade,
And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade!
While countless romances I read if I please,
In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees.
'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall,
A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball;
Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool,
Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool —
When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow,
'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!
What studies of man and of woman and horse
Here pass up and down on the tan-trodden course!
The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there,
The author, the actor, the great millionaire;
The first-season beauties whose roses are red,
The third-season beauties whose roses have fled!
M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there,
And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair —
I note them all down, as they pass to and fro,
And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!
What countless fair pictures around may be seen,
How colours flash bright on their background of green!
A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face,
And dainty devices in linen and lace!
The triumphs of Worth and of Madame Elise
You see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees.
What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air,
And gossip you hear sitting silently there! —
But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and so
I ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!
A PORTRAIT
IN sunny girlhood's vernal life
She caused no small sensation;
But now the modest English wife
To others leaves flirtation.
She's young still, lovely, debonair,
Although sometimes her features
Are clouded by a thought of care
For those two tiny creatures.
Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite
Asserts