By skilful hands this wondrous gown Of costliest stuff was made,été Cocoons of France on Antwerp looms Wrought to embossed brocade, Where roses red and violets In blooming beauty grew, As if young May were there alway, And June and April too!
And from this bower of delight Miss Nancy reigned a Queen, Nor one disloyal heart rebelled In all her wild demesne: The noble House of Burgesses Forgot its fierce debate O’er rights of Crown, when Nancy’s gown Appeared in Halls of State!
Through jocund reel, or measured tread Of stately minuet, Like fairy vision shone the bloom Of rose and violet, As, hand in hand with Washington, The hero of the day, The smiling face and nymph-like grace Of Nancy led the way!
A century, since that gay time The merry dance was trod, Has passed, and Nancy long has slept Beneath the churchyard sod; Yet on the brocade velvet gown The rose and violet Are blooming bright as on the night She danced the minuet! _Zitella Cocke._
OLD coat, for some three or four seasons We’ve been jolly comrades, but now We part, old companion, forever; To fate, and the fashion, I bow. You’d look well enough at a dinner, I’d wear you with pride at a ball; But I’m dressing to-night for a wedding— My own—and you’d not do at all.
You’ve too many wine-stains about you, You’re scented too much with cigars, When the gaslight shines full on your collar It glitters with myriad stars, That wouldn’t look well at my wedding; They’d seem inappropriate there— Nell doesn’t use diamond powder. She tells me it ruins the hair.
You’ve been out on Cozzen’s piazza Too late, when the evenings were damp, When the moon-beams were silvering Cro’nest, And the lights were all out in the camp. You’ve rested on highly-oiled stairways Too often, when sweet eyes were bright. And somebody’s ball dress—not Nellie’s— Flowed ’round you in rivers of white.
There’s a reprobate looseness about you; Should I wear you to-night, I believe, As I come with my bride from the altar, You’d laugh in your wicked old sleeve, When you felt there the tremulous pressure Of her hand, in its delicate glove, That is telling me shyly, but proudly, Her trust is as deep as her love.
So, go to your grave in the wardrobe, And furnish a feast for the moth, Nell’s glove shall betray its sweet secrets To younger, more innocent cloth. ’Tis time to put on your successor— It’s made in a fashion that’s new; Old coat, I’m afraid it will never Sit as easily on me as you. _George A. Baker._