War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth:
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O, Time, whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou:
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other VIRGIL now;
Before his name the nations bow:
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of DANTE's mind.

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER

FROM

NOTHING TO WEAR

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square,

Has made three separate journeys to Paris;
And her father assures me, each time she was there,
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris

(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,
But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery)
Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping
In one continuous round of shopping:
Shopping alone and shopping together,

At all hours of the day and in all sorts of weather;
For all manner of things that a woman can put
On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders or fit round her waist,
Or that can be sewed on or pinned on or laced,
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind, above or below;
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls,
Dresses for breakfasts and dinners and balls,

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Dresses to sit in and stand in and walk in,
Dresses to dance in and flirt in and talk in,
Dresses in which to do nothing at all,
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall,
All of them different in color and pattern-
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin,
Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material
Quite as expensive and much more ethereal;

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of,

From ten-thousand-francs robes to twenty-sous frills;
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store,
While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore,
They footed the streets, and he footed the bills.

The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago

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Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo:

Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest,

Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest,
Which did not appear on the ship's manifest,
But for which the ladies themselves manifested
Such particular interest that they invested
Their own proper persons in layers and rows
Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes,
Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those;
Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties,
Gave GOOD-BY to the ship and GO-BY to the duties.

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Her relations at home all marvelled no doubt,

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Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout

For an actual belle and a possible bride;

But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out,

And the truth came to light-and the dry goods beside,

Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-house sentry,

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Had entered the port without any entry.

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,

This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square,

The last time we met was in utter despair

Because she had nothing whatever to wear!

Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited
Abroad in society, I 've instituted

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A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough,
On this vital subject, and find, to my horror,
That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising,
But that there exists the greatest distress
In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress,
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear."
Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts
Reveal the most painful and startling statistics,
Of which let me mention only a few:

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In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue,
Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two,
Who have been three whole weeks without any thing new

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In the way of flounced silks, and, thus left in the lurch,
Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church;

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In another large mansion near the same place
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case
Of entire destitution of Brussels point lace.

Oh, ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built,
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair.
Raise the rich, dainty dress and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,

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Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret where wretches, the young and the old,
Half-starved and half-naked lie crouched from the cold.
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor,

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Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door. Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dareSpoiled children of Fashion-you 've nothing to wear!

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

THE BALLAD OF BABIE BELL

Have you not heard the poets tell
How came the dainty Babie Bell

Into this world of ours?

The gates of heaven were left ajar:

With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of Paradise,

She saw this planet, like a star,

Hung in the glistening depths of even—

Its bridges, running to and fro,

O'er which the white-winged Angels go,

Bearing the holy Dead to heaven!

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ΙΟ

She touched a bridge of flowers-those feet, So light they did not bend the bells

Of the celestial asphodels!