AVARICE

AZALEA

53

9

That disease Of which all old men sicken, avarice. THOMAS MIDDLETON—The Roaring Girl. Act

I. Sc. 1. (See also BYRON)

How are the veins of thee, Autumn, laden?

Umbered juices,

And pulped oozes
Pappy out of the cherry-bruises,
Froth the veins of thee, wild, wild maiden.

With hair that musters

In globèd clusters, In tumbling clusters, like swarthy grapes, Round thy brow and thine ears o'ershaden; With the burning darkness of eyes like pansies,

Like velvet pansies

Where through escapes The splendid might of thy conflagrate fancies; With robe gold-tawny not hiding the shapes

Of the feet whereunto it falleth down,

Thy naked feet unsandalled;
With robe gold-tawny that does not veil

Feet where the red

Is meshed in the brown, Like a rubied sun in a Venice-sail. FRANCIS THOMPSON-A Corymbus for Autumn.

St. 2.

This avarice Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.

Macbeth. Act IV. Sc. 3. L. 84.

Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on.

THOMSON-Seasons. Autumn. L. 1.

14

3

We lack but open eye and ear
To find the Orient's marvels here;
The still small voice in autumn's hush,
Yon maple wood the burning bush.
WHITTIER-Chapel of the Hermits.

(See also E. B. BROWNING)

AVARICE So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice. BYRON—Don Juan. Canto I. St. 216.

(See also MIDDLETON)

16

With ridiculous and awkward action,
Which, slanderer, he imitation calls.

Troilus and Cressida. Act I, Sc. 3. L. 149.

5

Avaritiam si tollere vultis, mater ejus est tollenda, luxuries.

If you wish to remove avarice you must remove its mother, luxury. CICERODe Oratore. II. 40.

Ac primam scelerum matrem, quæ semper ha

bendo Plus sitiens patulis rimatur faucibus aurum, Trudis Avaritiam.

Expel avarice, the mother of all wickedness, who, always thirsty for more, opens wide her jaws for gold. CLAUDIANUS—De Laudibus Stilichonis. II.

111.

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with those. The bursting tears my heart declare; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr.

BURNS—The Banks of Ayr.

AZALEA

Rhododendron And in the woods a fragrance rare Of wild azaleas fills the air, And richly tangled overhead We see their blossoms sweet and red. DORA READ GOODALE-Spring Scatters Far

and Wide. 20 The fair azalea bows Beneath its snowy crest.

SARAH H. WAITMAN—She Blooms no More.

8

Crescit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia crescit.

The love of pelf increases with the pelf. JUVENAL—Satires. XIV. 139.

B

BABYHOOD

1

And moor herself within my room

My daughter! O my daughter!
G. W. CABLE—The New Arrival.

10

Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours?

T. B. ALDRICH-Baby Bell.

2

11

Oh those little, those little blue shoes! Those shoes that no little feet use.

Oh, the price were high

That those shoes would buy, Those little blue unused shoes!

WILLIAM C. BENNETT—Baby's Shoes.

3

Lullaby, baby, upon the tree top;
When the wind blows the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
And down comes the baby, and cradle and all.
Said to be “first poem produced on American

soil.” Author a Pilgrim youth who came
over on the Mayflower. See Book Lover,
Feb., 1904.

Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps; Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes.

CAMPBELL-Pleasures of Hope. Pt. I. L. 225. He is so little to be so large! Why, a train of cars, or a whale-back barge Couldn't carry the freight Of the monstrous weight Of all of his qualities, good and great. And tho' one view is as good as another, Don't take my word for it. Ask his mother!

EDMUND VANCE COOKE—The Intruder.

12 “The hand that rocks the cradle”—but there is

no such hand. It is bad to rock the baby, they would have us

understand; So the cradle's but a relic of the former foolish

days, When mothers reared their children in unscien

4

Rock-bye-baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock.
When the bough bends the cradle will fall,
Down comes the baby, cradle and all.
Old nursery rhyme, attributed in this form to

CHARLES DUPEE BLAKE.

tific ways;

5

you know.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

WILLIAM BLAKE-A Cradle Song.

When they jounced them and they bounced

them, those poor dwarfs of long agoThe Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamses, Ascribed to BISHOP DOANE–What Might

Have Been. A complaint that for hygienic reasons, he was not allowed to play with his grandchild in the old-fashioned way.

(See also WALLACE under MOTHERHOOD) When you fold your hands, Baby Louise! Your hands like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, With a pretty, innocent, saintlike air, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught

prayer You learned above, Baby Louise. MARGARET EYTINGE–Baby Louise.

6

13

How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
In their pure incarnation, vying with
The rose leaves strewn beneath them.
And his lips, too,
How beautifully parted! No; you shall not
Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon-
His hour of midday rest is nearly over.

BYRON-Cain. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 14.

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the Everywhere into here.
GEO. MACDONALD—Song in “At The Back

of The North Wind.” Ch. XXXIII.
11
Whenever a little child is born
All night a soft wind rocks the corn;
One more buttercup wakes to the morn,

Somewhere, Somewhere.
One more rosebud shy will unfold,
One more grass blade push through the mold,
One more bird-song the air will hold,

Somewhere, Somewhere.
AGNES CARTER MASON—Somewhere.

2

12

Suck, baby! suck! mother's love grows by giv

ing: Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by

wasting! Black manhood comes when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. CHARLES LAMB—The Gypsy's Malison. Son

net in Letter to Mrs. Procter, Jan. 29, 1829.

And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
Shall light thy dark up like a Star.
A Beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love and fainting faith.

GERALD MASSEY--Babe Christabel.

13

3

The hair she means to have is gold,
Her eyes are blue, she's twelve weeks old,

Plump are her fists and pinky.
She fluttered down in lucky hour
From some blue deep in yon sky bower-

I call her “Little Dinky." FRED. LOCKER-LAMPSON—Little Dinky.

You scarce could think so small a thing

Could leave a loss so large; Her little light such shadow fling

From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be

In bannered bloom unfurled,
But never, never match our wee

White Rose of all the world.
GERALD MASSEY-Our Wee White Rose.

14 A sweet, new blossom of Humanity, Fresh fallen from God's own home to flower on

earth. GERALD MASSEY-Wooed and Won.

4

A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex'd with the newly found fardel of life.

FRED. LOCKER-LAMPSON—The Old Cradle.

5

15

O child! O new-born denizen
Of life's great city! on thy head
The glory of the morn is shed,
Like a celestial benison!
Here at the portal thou dost stand,
And with thy little hand
Thou openest the mysterious gate
Into the future's undiscovered land.

LONGFELLOW—To a Child.

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toun,
Up stairs and doon stairs in his nicht-goun,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
“Are the weans in their bed? for it's now ten

o'clock."
WILLIAM MILLER—Willie Winkie.

16

6

As living jewels dropped unstained from heaven.

POLLOCK—Course of Time. Bk. V. L. 158.

A baby was sleeping,
Its mother was weeping.

SAMUEL LOVER-Angel's Whisper.

17

Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength.

Psalms. VIII. 2.

18

7 Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;

Oh! bless'd be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with

thee. SAMUEL LOVER—Angel's Whisper.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
And wandered hither, so his stay
With us was short, and 'twas most meet,
That he should be no delver in earth's clod,
Vor need to pause and cleanse his feet
To stand before his God:
O blest word-Evermore!

LOWELL-Threnodia.

Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse
And presently all humbled kiss the rod!
Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act I. Sc. 2.

L. 57.

9

21

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me and so I grew.
Geo. MACDONALD—Song in "At the Back of

The North Wind." Ch. XXXIII.

A daughter and a goodly babe, Lusty and like to live: the queen receives Much comfort in 't.

Winter's Tale. Act II. Sc. 2. L. 27.

A little soul scarce fledged for earth

Takes wing with heaven again for goal, Even while we hailed as fresh from birth

A little soul.
SWINBURNE—A Baby's Death.

* They

3

14

But what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

TENNYSON–In Memoriam. Pt. LIV. St. 5. (See also BURTON, under BIRTH; CROUCH, under

DEATH; also KING LEAR, SAXE, under LIFE)

15

I have a passion for ballads. are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature, in the genial Summertime.

LONGFELLOW-Hyperion. Bk. II. Ch. II. For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.

SAMUEL LOVER-Paddy Blake's Echo. More solid things do not show the complexion of the times so well as Ballads and Libels. JOHN SELDON-Libels. (Libels-pamphlets,

libellum, a small book.) I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew! Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers.

Henry IV. Pt. I. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 129. 17

I love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.

Winter's Tale. Act IV. Sc. 4. L. 187.

4

16

Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat!
Beat upon mine! you are mine, my sweet!
All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet,

My sweet!
TENNYSON—Romney's Remorse.

5

Baby smiled, mother wailed,
Earthward while the sweetling sailed;
Mother smiled, baby wailed,

When to earth came Viola.
FRANCIS THOMPSON—The Making of Viola.

St. 9.

18

6

A famous man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy.

WORDSWORTH—Rob Roy's Grave.

A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure.

TUPPER-Of Education.

BANISHMENT The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide; They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and

slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.

MILTON—Paradise Lost. Bk. XII. L. 646.

20

Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that
Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all
From twelve to seventy; and pouring war
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,
Like a bold flood o'erbear.

Coriolanus. Act IV. Sc. 5. L. 133.
21

No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is old Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack and banish all the world.

Henry IV. Pt. I. Act II. Sc. 4. L. 520.

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling.

GOLDSMITH—The Deserted Village. L. 345.

*

5

16

Thy boist'rous locks, no worthy match
For valour to assail, nor by the sword
But by the barber's razor best subdued.

MILTON-Samson Agonistes. L. 1,167.

The first (barbers) that entered Italy came out of Sicily and it was in the 454 yeare after the foundation of Rome. Brought in they were by P. Ticinius Mena as Verra doth report for before that time they never cut their hair. The first that was shaven every day was Scipio Africanus, and after him cometh Augustus the Emperor who evermore used the rasor. PLINY—Natural History. Bk. VII. Ch. LIX.

HOLLAND's trans.

On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.

Tempest. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 91.

Whose beard they have sing'd off with brands

of fire; And ever, as it blaz’d, they threw on him Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair: My master preaches patience to him and the

while His man with scissors nicks him like a fool.

Comedy of Errors. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 171.

And his chin new reap'd, Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest-home.

Henry IV. Pt. I. Act I. Sc. 3. L. 34.

What is lovely never dies, But passes into other loveliness, Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower or winged air.

T. B. ALDRICH-A Shadow of the Night.

21

10

I must not say that she was true,

Yet let me say that she was fair; And they, that lovely face who view,

They should not ask if truth be there. MATTHEW ARNOLD—Euphrosyne.

22

The barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls. Much Ado About Nothing. Act III. Sc. 2.

L. 45.
11
A Fellow in a market town.
Most musical, cried Razors up and down.

John Wolcot—Farewell Odes. Ode 3.

The beautiful are never desolate;
But some one alway loves them God or man.
If man abandons, God himself takes them.
BAILEY-Festus. Sc. Water and Wood Mid-

night. L. 370.