When hearts are trumps by Thomas Winthrop Hall
T >>
Thomas Winthrop Hall >> When hearts are trumps
When Hearts are Trumps
By
Tom Hall
[Illustration]
_New York_
Frederick A. Stokes
Company
Publishers
Frederick H. Stokes
Company
Sixth Edition
September 1898
_The verses in this volume have been selected from work that has
appeared in various periodicals during the past five years. Especially
to the editors of_ LIFE, TRUTH, TOWN TOPICS, VOGUE, _and_ MUNSEY'S
MAGAZINE _I have to offer my thanks for their permission to republish
the majority of them_.
_T.H._
NEW YORK, February 1, 1894.
Contents.
KINGS & QUEENS & BOWERS
THE PERFECT FACE
THE MOONLIGHT SONATA
THE KISS
THE BRIDE
A PROBLEM
TO PHYLLIS READING A LETTER
A ROSE FROM HER HAIR
WHEN I TOLD HER MY LOVE
MY LADY, YOU BLUSHED
THE AMERICAN SLAVE
SELL HER,--THAT'S RIGHT
TIME AND PLACE
BLOOD ON THE ROSE
IN OLD MADRID
THE DUEL
THE SHROUD
LOVE'S RETURN
ONE WISH
FOR ME
TO A WATER-COLOR
THE SERENADE
TO THE ROSE IN HER HAIR
HER REVERIE
TO BEAUTY
DREAMING OF YOU
PLEASE RETURN
ALMOST DYING OF ENNUI
JACKS FROM JACK
HYACINTHS
IN THE WALTZ
SHE IS MINE
OLD TIMES
OF MY LOVE
THE FAREWELL
THE LAST DANCE
WHY HE ASKED FOR A VACATION
THE EDITOR'S VALENTINE
ACTING
AN APACHE LOVE-SONG
THE OLD-FASHIONED GIRL
A RETROSPECT
HARD HIT
REJECTED
JOKERS
HER YACHTING CAP
THEFT
BEFORE HER MIRROR
AT OLD POINT COMFORT
A DROP TOO MUCH
INGRATITUDE
A FEW RESOLUTIONS
A DILEMMA
A CHOICE NOT NECESSARY
THAT BOSTON GIRL
THE HERO
THE SWEET SUMMER GIRL
HER FAN
CERTAINTY
CAUGHT
AN IMPORTANT DISTINCTION
TWO KINDS
WHAT IT IS
IN HER PEW
THE SUSPICIOUS LOVER TO THE STAR
A SLIGHT SURPRISE
PAST _vs_. PRESENT
THE USUAL WAY
A DIFFERENCE IN STYLE
AFRAID
YE RETORT EXASPERATING
A RHYMING REVERIE
A SURE WINNER
TANTALIZATION
HIS USUAL FATE
ON TWO LETTERS FROM HER
A SERENADE--EN DEUX LANGUES
WHEN A GIRL SAYS "NO"
UNCERTAINTY
HER PECULIARITIES
TYING THE STRINGS OF HER SHOE
WHEN YOU ARE REJECTED
A BACHELOR'S VIEWS
MY CIGARETTE
DISCOVERED
THE ICE IN THE PUNCH
THE TALE OF A BROKEN HEART
WHERE DID YOU GET IT?
NO
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S TEMPEST
THE ABUSED GALLANT
AFTER THE BALL
VANITY FAIR
FOR THE LONG VOYAGE
Kings
&
Queens
&
Bowers
The Perfect Face.
The Graces, on a summer day,
Grew serious for a moment; yea,
They thought in rivalry to trace
The outline of a perfect face.
Each used a rosebud for a brush,
And, while it glowed with sunset's blush,
Each painted on the evening sky,
And each a star used for the eye.
They finished. Each a curtaining cloud
Drew back, and each exclaimed aloud:
"Behold, we three have drawn the same,
From the same model!" Ah, her name?
I know. I saw the pictures grow.
I saw them falter, fade, and go.
I know the model. Oft she lures
My heart. The face, my sweet, was yours.
The Moonlight Sonata.
The notes still float upon the air,
Just as they did that night.
I see the old piano there,--
Oh, that again I might!
Her young voice haunts my eager ear;
Her hair in the candle-light
Still seems an aureole,--a tear
Is my spectroscope to-night.
I hear her trembling tell me "No,"
And I know that she answered right
But I throw a kiss to the stars, and though
She be wed she will dream to-night.
The Kiss
Over the green fields, over the snow,
Something I send thee, something I throw.
No one can guess it; no one can know.
Light as a feather, quick as the eye;
Thin as a sunbeam, deep as the sky;
Worthless, but something a queen could not buy.
Ah, you have caught it, love! How do I know?
Sweet, there are secrets lost ages ago.
Lovers learn all of them. Smile not,--'tis so.
The Bride.
Before her mirror, robed in spotless white,
She stands and, wondering, looks at her own face,
Amazed at its new loveliness and grace.
Smiling and blushing at the pretty sight,
So fraught is she with innocent delight,
She feels the tender thrill of his embrace
Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;
Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.
Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;
She turns from it with petulant disdain,
And tries to read the future,--but in vain.
Blank are its pages from the first to last.
She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room
Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.
A Problem.
Give you a problem for your midnight toil,--
One you can study till your hair is white
And never solve and never guess aright,
Although you burn to dregs your midnight oil?
O Sage, I give one that will make you moil.
Just take one weakling little woman's heart.
Prepare your patience, furbish up your art.
How now? Did I not see you then recoil?
Tell me how many times it has known pain;
Tell me what thing will make it feel delight;
Tell me when it is modest, when 'tis vain;
Tell me when it is wrong and when 'tis right:
But tell me this, all other things above,--
Can it feel, Sage, the thing that man calls "Love"?
To Phyllis Reading a Letter.
A smile is curving o'er her creamy cheek,
Her bosom swells with all a lover's joy,
When love receives a message that the coy
Young love-god made a strong and true heart speak
From far-off lands; and like a mountain-peak
That loses in one avalanche its cloy
Of ice and snow, so doth her breast employ
Its hidden store of blushes; and they wreak
Destruction, as they crush my aching heart,--
Destruction, wild, relentless, and as sure
As the poor Alpine hamlet's; and no art
Can hide my agony, no herb can cure
My wound. Her very blush says, "We must part."
Why was it always my fate to endure?
A Rose from her hair.
She gave me a rose from her hair,
And she hid her young heart within it.
I could hardly speak from despair,
Till she gave that rose from her hair,
And leaned out over the stair
With a blush as she stooped to pin it.
She gave me a rose from her hair,
And she hid her young heart within it.
When I told her my Love.
When I told her my love,
She was maidenly shy,
And she bit at her glove.
I gave Cupid a shove;
Yes, I begged him to try,
When I told her my love
What was she thinking of
As she uttered that sigh
And she bit at her glove?
And pray what does it prove
That she stopped there to sigh,
When I told her my love
And she bit at her glove?
My Lady, you Blushed.
My lady, you blushed.
Was my love a surprise?
How quickly they hushed!
A curl of yours brushed
All else from my eyes.
My lady, you blushed.
You say that I gushed,
And they all heard my sighs?
How quickly they hushed!
Your roses were crushed;
_N'importe_ wherefores and whys.
My lady, you blushed.
The American Slave.
Come, muster your pleasantest smile, my dear,
And put on your prettiest gown.
Forget about Jack for a while, my dear,
His lordship has just come to town.
He's come here to get him a wife, my dear,
And you have been put up for sale
With a marvellous income for life, my dear,
To balance your side of the scale.
His lordship is feeble and old, my dear,--
What odds? All the sooner he'll die.
And he has a sore need of your gold, my dear:
See the good you can do if you'll try.
And then a real lady you'll be, my dear,
Not only by nature but name;
Mamma'll be so proud,--you can see, my dear,
No one thinks it, as you do, a shame.
So bend your proud head. Are you faint, my dear?
Keep the tears back, be buoyant and brave.
Keep that pose! Now a portrait we'll paint, my dear,
To be called "The American Slave."
Sell Her,--That's Right.
Sell her,--that's right! She is young, she is fair;
There's the light of the sun in the coils of her hair.
And her soul is as white as the first flakes of snow
That are falling to-night. 'T is a bargain, a "go"
Sell her,--that's right!
Sell her,--that's right! For a bag full of gold.
Put her down in your ledger, and label her "Sold"
She's only a beauty with somebody's name,
And the Church for a pittance will wash out the shame.
Sell her,--that's right!
Time and Place.
Hasten on! The mad moonlight is beaming
On the hatred and love 'twixt us two;
And it beams on the maid who is dreaming,
And the grave made for me or for you.
Time and place,--love and life in the balance,
Fear and hope in the glance of your eye.
Draw your blade! Forget not we are gallants
Who can laugh at our fate as we die.
On your guard! There'll be blood on the metal
Ere she wakes from her innocent dreams;
There's a long list of kisses to settle,
And some love sighs and death sighs, it seems.
Bare your arm! Strike for life and the maiden!
Take that! You are cautious, I fear
Speed the blow,--'tis with happiness laden
For him who does not remain here
That and that! I am wounded,--it's over
Those kisses were destined for you;
But now she is yours and you love her,
Go tell her that I loved her too
Blood on the Rose.
Is it dew on the rose?
'T is the same that I gave him
Last night when I chose
To warn him and save him;
That he pinned on his breast
With a smile at his danger,
And a smile, not in jest,
That was sweeter and stranger
Here are footprints of foes!
Oh, my heart!--I can feel
It is blood on the rose
And a sliver of steel.
In Old Madrid.
I strolled the streets in quest of any love,
In old Madrid long centuries ago;
I caught the perfume of a scented glove,
I saw a sweet face in a portico.
She laughed--then paled. She leaned out; whispered, "Fly!"
And then I felt the sting of steel, the hiss
Of curses in my ear, and knew that I
Had forfeited my life--and lost a kiss.
The Duel.
Ten paces--one, two, three, and fire!
Two gallants have their heart's desire.
One of them dies, the other laughs;
The seconds smile, the doctor chaffs.
A woman, smiling, dreams she's wed
To--hush, to the very one that's dead.
The Shroud.
The snow came softly, silently, down
Into the streets of the dark old town;
And lo! by the wind it was swept and piled
On the sleeping form of a beggar-child.
It kissed her cheek, and it filled her hair
With crystals that looked like diamonds there;
And she dreamed that she was a fair young bride
In a pure white dress by her husband's side.
A blush crept over her pale young face,
And her thin lips smiled with a girlish grace;
But the old storm-king made his boast aloud
That his work that night was weaving a shroud.
Love's Return.
Love has come back--ah me, the joy!--
Greater than when Love began
To wound my heart. The jocund boy!
Love has come back a gray-haired man.
His eyes are red with tears of woe,
His cheeks are pale, and his heart is sore;
But Love has come back at last, and, oh!
Love will be faithful evermore.
One Wish.
My thoughts are gliding down the stream,
Ah, faster than the river flows;
And idly in my heart I dream
Of islands where the lotus grows.
I fear not rapids, waterfall,
Or whirlpool leading down to death,
If love but my tired heart enthrall,
And I may sip a woman's breath.
I care not what may be my fate.
Roll on, mad river, to the sea;
Drown all ambition, pride, and hate,--
But leave one woman's love to me.
For Me.
I heard her song,
Low in the night,
From out her casement steal away,
Nor thought it wrong
To steal a sight
Of her--and lo! she knelt to pray.
I heard her say,
"Forgive him, Lord;
Such as he seems he cannot be."
I turned away,
Myself abhorred.
She prayed--and oh! she prayed for me.
To a Water-color.
Sweet Phyllis, maid of yesterday,
Come down from out that frame,
And tell me why you looked so gay--
Likewise your other name.
Had bold Sir Plume confessed his love
And asked you if you'd wed?
And had he called you "Lovey-dove"?
And how long are you dead?
Where did you get that wondrous gown,
Those patches, and that hair?
And how were things in London town
The last time you were there?
And did you die a maid or wife,
Your husband lord or knave?
And how did you like this jolly life?
And how do you like the grave?
The Serenade.
Under my casement, as I pray,
My lover sings my cares away
With many a half-forgotten lay.
He leans against the linden-tree,
And sings old songs of Arcady
That he knows well are loved by me.
Half through the night the sweet strains float
Like wind-blown rose-leaves, note by note,
Over the great wall and the moat,
Up to my window, till they teem
Into my soul, and almost seem
To be there even when I dream.
And his heart trembling beats with bliss
If I but throw him one small kiss
Just as I now throw this, and this
To the Rose in her hair.
Poor little rose, I pity you--
Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity--
Tortured an evil hour or two,
Just to adorn a wilful beauty.
I know her well, too well, alas!
(Just watch the fairy as she dances.)
She wears my heart--but let that pass;
It's dead: she killed it with her glances.
Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,--
To be despised when you are faded;
Yet she's an angel--too divine
To be by you or me upbraided.
Her Reverie.
A lady combed her silken hair.
None but a looking-glass would dare
To gaze on such a scene.
The blushes thronged her dimpled cheek;
They coursed upon her shoulders, eke,
And the white neck between.
And she was thinking then, I trow,
Of one who, in a whispered vow
Beneath the budding elm,
Had told her they would sail their barque
On lakes where pale stars pierced the dark,
With Cupid at the helm.
Anon, a faint smile pursed her lips
And shook her dainty finger-tips,
As breezes shake the boughs;
And then a quick, impetuous frown
Came gathering from her ringlets down,
And perched upon her brows.
Ah, she was thinking then, I ween,
Of me, poor clumsy dunce, who e'en
Had torn her silken dress.
I waltzed too near her at the ball;
Her beauty dazed me--that was all;
I felt a dizziness.
To Beauty.
"Oh, Mistress Beauty," said my sigh,
"I'd laugh to scorn all other blisses,
If you and I might live and die
Together on such fare as kisses.
"Your kirtle would not be of silk,
The band around it but torn leather.
I think our wine would be plain milk;
I think we'd oft see stormy weather.
"But, oh, there are some things in life
Worth more to men than fame or money;
And one of them's a sweet young wife,
So pure, so honest, and so bonnie."
Dreaming of You.
My soul feels refreshed, like a rose kissed by dew,
When waking I know I've been dreaming of you.
They thought I was mad. Ah, my sweet, if they knew
That my malady simply was dreaming of you!
I've one wish. 'Tis to sleep all the long ages through
By your side, you my bride, and I dreaming of you.
Please Return.
Now, all you pretty maids in town,
Take heed of my sad plight.
I've lost a kiss; I'll give a crown
To get it back to-night.
I threw it, poet-like, I own,
Up to a silvery star;
I must confess I might have known
I could not throw so far.
But, oh, surprise! It circled round,
And sank as though 't were laden
With love--when almost to the ground
'T was caught by some young maiden.
And that young maid I wish to find.
I've lost a kiss, alack!
It is not hers. She'll not be kind
Unless she give it back.
Almost Dying of Ennui.
What are the charms of the sea?
Oh for an hour of the city!
What are the dull waves to me?
Can they say anything witty?
What do they care for my lips?
Why did I come? It's a pity!
Nothing but water and ships,
And Jack far away in the city.
Oh for one ride in the park,
With Jack humming bars from a ditty;
Kissing me (when it grows dark).
Fy! Oh--heigho, for the city!
Jacks from Jack.
Fresh, fragrant, tempting, balmy, red--
What fool would send them back?
Why do I wish that I were dead,
With all these jacks from Jack?
Why do I bite my lips and frown,
Tear buttons off my sacque,
When, just returning to the town,
I get these jacks from Jack?
Alas, for pleasure's giddy whirl,
For summer lost, alack!
He's off to see some other girl;
That's why mere jacks from Jack.
Hyacinths.
Hyacinths, tenderly sweet,
Is it life that you ask in your prayer?
Ah, I would die at her feet,
If I could be one of you there.
There on her billowy breast,
So near to her innocent heart,
That its beating would lull me to rest,
And to dream I should never depart.
Sighing are you for the stars?
Look in the depths of her eyes.
Is there a gem of the Czar's
So much like those gems of the skies?
Is it the dew that you miss?
Hyacinths, hyacinths, wait.
Soon she will give you a kiss.
Oh, how I envy your fate!
In The Waltz.
AN ECHO FROM A SEASIDE HOP.
Light as the waves foaming white on the bar,
We dance to the mandolin, harp, and guitar;
One, two, three, waltzing we glide round the room,--
Would you were bride, and ah, would I were groom!
On all the seashore none fairer than you;
What but adore you could any one do?
Cheeks like the pink of an evening sky,
Eyes that might bid a man laughingly die.
Ears like the shells from the Indian sea,
Teeth like white buds on a young apple-tree,
Throat like a lily bent heavy with dew,
Arms just as white and as lily-like too.
Lips that would tempt--ah! you'll pardon me now,
Being so near them suggests, you'll allow,
That the happiest thing e'er a mortal could do,
Would be to be ever thus waltzing with you.
She Is Mine.
There's a sparkle in her eye
That no millionnaire can buy.
If they think so, let them try--
She's divine.
There's a blush upon her cheek
Like the peach-tree's blossom, eke,
Like red willows by the creek,
Or like wine.
She has roses in her hair.
It was I who put them there.
Really, did I ever dare--
Is she mine?
Or is it all a dream,--
Idle poet's empty theme
Put in words that make it seem
Superfine?
No; for see upon her hand
There's a little golden band,--
Filigree work, understand,
Like a vine;
And a perfect solitaire
Fits upon it. The affair
Cost two hundred. I don't care!
She is mine.
Old Times.
Ah, good old times of belles and beaux,
Of powdered wigs and wondrous hose,
Of stately airs and careful grace,
Look you at our degenerate race.
No more the gallant spends his time
In writing of his love in rhyme;
No more he lives unconscious of
All earthly things save war and love.
We modern men have toils and cares
To streak our pates with whitened hairs,
And have to crowd our love and all
Into one short and weekly call.
Of My Love.
Was ever a moon
In joyous June
As royal, radiant, rare as she,
With her smiling lips,
As she lightly trips
Down through the autumn woods to me?
Never a queen
On her throne, I ween,
Had such a loyal slave as I.
Ready to bear
All her cares, I swear,
Just for a fleeting kiss on the sly.
Oh for the day
We gallop away
To the curate's cottage, Gretna Green;
Side by side,
Groom and bride,
Happy twenty and sweet sixteen!
The Farewell.
Not going abroad? What, to-morrow,
And to stay, goodness knows for how long?
Really, Jack, 'twould appear that dry sorrow
Had done even you, sir, a wrong.
It has? Ha, ha, ha! What a joke, sir!
Is it Mabel or Jenny or Nell?
I'm sure you are wrong,--hold my cloak, sir,--
Am I not an old friend? Come now, tell.
The prince of our set broken-hearted!
What a joke! Who rejected you? Speak!
Did you look like that, Jack, when you parted?
Was that pallor of death on your cheek?
You interest me. Tell me about it;
And let your old chum, sir, console.
Hard hit in the heart. I don't doubt it;
You were made for that sort of a role.
Did you bend on your knee, like an actor,
Hardly knowing just where to begin?
Was dear mamma's consent the main factor?
What a fool the poor girl must have been!
Who was she? What!--I?--You were jealous?
O, Jack, who'd have thought such a thing?
You've been certainly not over-zealous.
But kiss me--and where is the ring?
The Last Dance.
AN INCIDENT IN A WINDOW SEAT.
_He_: Well, how many conquests? I fancy a score
By the flush on your cheeks and your shoulders.
_She_: A bore!
_He_: Oh, nonsense; a debutante just out of school
Who can rule with a smile what a king could not rule,
From young Harry, her prince, to myself, her poor fool!
Come, tell me, did Harry propose?
_She_: What a goose
You would think me to tell you, and then of what use
Could it be?
_He_: Well, it might give me hope, where before
There was none,--quite a boon from the lips you adore
When you 're hungry for love.
_She (coquetting)_: Or who knows but it might--
_He_: Yes, it might blot from life every semblance of light
As the clouds blot the moon on a storm-troubled night.
But tell me.
_She_: He did.
_He_: And your answer was?
_She_: No.
_He_: You mean it, or are you coquetting yet?
_She_: Oh!
I just told him I cared for another--he smiled.
It was merely to him so much pleasure beguiled
From a girl. Charge it up profit?--loss?--tell me which?
He thinks I am pretty, they say, but, not rich.
He would love me, perhaps, for a season or two,
So I told him that I loved another.
_He_: And who?
_She (archly)_: Really, must I tell _you?_
_He_: No--your finger--yes, this!
A solitaire--done! and now quickly!
_She (feigning reluctance)_: One!
_He (ecstatically)_: Kiss.
Why he asked for a Vacation.
"Dear Jack:
It's delightfully gay here,--
Old Paris seemed never so fine,--
And mamma says we're going to stay here,
And papa--well, papa sips his wine
And says nothing. You know him of old, dear.
He's only too happy to rest,--
After making three millions in gold, dear.
He's played out, it must be confessed,--
And I--I'm to wed an old Baron
Three weeks from to-day, in great style
(He's as homely and gaunt as old Charon,
And they say that his past has been vile);
And I've promised to cut you hereafter,--
Small chance, though, we ever shall meet,--
So let's turn our old love into laughter,
And face the thing through. Shall we, sweet?
Can you give me up, Jack, to this _roue_,
Just because we may always be poor?
There's still enough time, dear, _et tu es_
_Un brave_,--you will come, I am sure.
Put your trunk on the swiftest Cunarder,
And don't give me up, Jack, for--well,
There are things in this world that are harder
Than poverty. Come to me!
NELL."
The Editor's Valentine.
The editor sat in his old arm-chair
(Half his work undone he was well aware),
While the flickering light in the dingy room
Made the usual newspaper office gloom.
Before him news from the North and South,
A long account of a foreign drouth,
A lot of changes in local ads,
The report of a fight between drunken cads,
And odds and ends and smoke and talk,--
A reporter drawing cartoons in chalk
On the dirty wall, while others laughed,
And one wretch whistled, and all of them chaffed.