ISABEL.

In her body’s perfect sweet
Suppleness and languor meet,—­
Arms that move like lapsing billows,
Breasts that Love would make his pillows,
Eyes where vision melts in bliss,
Lips that ripen to a kiss.

CONTEMPORARIES.

“A barbered woman’s man,”—­yes, so
He seemed to me a twelvemonth since;
And so he may be—­let it go—­
Admit his flaws—­we need not wince
To find our noblest not all great. 
What of it?  He is still the prince,
And we the pages of his state.

The world applauds his words; his fame
Is noised wherever knowledge be;
Even the trader hears his name,
As one far inland hears the sea;
The lady quotes him to the beau
Across a cup of Russian tea;
They know him and they do not know.

I know him.  In the nascent years
Men’s eyes shall see him as one crowned;
His voice shall gather in their ears
With each new age prophetic sound;
And you and I and all the rest,
Whose brows to-day are laurel-bound,
Shall be but plumes upon his crest.

A year ago this man was poor,—­
This Alfred whom the nations praise;
He stood a beggar at my door
For one mere word to help him raise
From fainting limbs and shoulders bent
The burden of the weary days;
And I withheld it—­and he went.

I knew him then, as I know now,
Our largest heart, our loftiest mind;
Yet for the curls upon his brow
And for his lisp, I could not find
The helping word, the cheering touch. 
Ah, to be just, as well as kind,—­
It costs so little and so much!

It seemed unmanly in my sight
That he, whose spirit was so strong
To lead the blind world to the light,
Should look so like the mincing throng
Who advertise the tailor’s art. 
It angered me—­I did him wrong—­
I grudged my groat and shut my heart.

I might have been the prophet’s friend,
Helped him who is to help the world! 
Now, when the striving is at end,
The reek-stained battle-banners furled,
And the age hears its muster-call,
Then I, because his hair was curled,
I shall have lost my chance—­that’s all.

THE TWO BOBBIES.

Bobbie Burns and Bobbie Browning,
They’re the boys I’d like to see. 
Though I’m not the boy for Bobbie,
Bobbie is the boy for me!

Bobbie Browning was the good boy;
Turned the language inside out,
Wrote his plays and had his days,
Died—­and held his peace, no doubt.

Poor North Bobbie was the bad boy,—­
Bad, bad, bad, bad Bobbie Burns! 
Loved and made the world his lover,
Kissed and barleycomed by turns.

London’s dweller, child of wisdom,
Kept his counsel, took his toll;
Ayrshire’s vagrant paid the piper,
Lost the game—­God save his soul!