  DEAR Priscilla, quaint and very Like a modern Puritan, Is a modest, literary, Merry young American: Horace she has read, and Bion Is her favorite in Greek; Shakespeare is a mighty lion In whose den she dares but peek; Him she leaves to some sage Daniel, Since of lions she’s afraid,— She prefers a playful spaniel, Such as Herrick or as Praed; And it’s not a bit satiric To confess her fancy goes From the epic to a lyric On a rose. Wise Priscilla, dilettante, With a sentimental mind, Doesn’t deign to dip in Dante And to Milton isn’t kind; L’Allegro, Il Penseroso Have some merits she will grant, All the rest is only so-so,— Enter Paradise she can’t! She might make a charming angel But it’s doubtful if the change’ll Make the Epic understood: Honey-suckling, like a bee she Goes and pillages his sweets, And it’s plain enough to see she Worships Keats. Gay Priscilla,—just the person For the Locker whom she loves; What a captivating verse on Her neat-fitting gowns or gloves He could write in catching measure, Setting all the heart astir! And to Aldrich what a pleasure It would be to sing of her,— He, whose perfect songs have won her Lips to quote them day by day. She repeats the rhymes of Bunner In a fascinating way, And you’ll often find her lost in— She has reveries at times— Some delightful one of Austin Dobson’s rhymes. O Priscilla, sweet Priscilla, Writing of you makes me think, As I burn my brown Manila And immortalize my ink, How well satisfied these poets Ought to be with what they do When, especially, they know it’s I who sing of you would marry Just the kind of girl you are,— One who doesn’t care to carry Her poetic taste too far,— One whose fancy is a bright one, Who is fond of poems fine, And appreciates a light one Such as mine. Frank Dempster Sherman. |
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