Original Poetry.

Evening Star, Volume VII, Issue 1970, 28 August 1869, Page 2

Original Poetry.

THE GRECIAN BEND. ’Twas not tliy lovely form, dear maid, Nor yet thine eye of tender blue, Nor thy fair cheek of rosy shade, Nor those rich lips of cherry hue : Such charms are beautiful and rare ; But they could never never rend This breast of mine. Ah, lady fair, It was—it was the Grecian bend. I saw thee in the afternoon, With graceful bend glide from a draper’s (His name I’ve learned from St Ouen, Who writes the “ Mata-Moros Papers”). My heart nigh leaped from out it’s place : So eager with thine own to blend ; The cause was not thy winning face No, no ! it was the Grecian bend. I saw thee when the sun went down With foggy night-cap o’er the flax-hill. Again I see thy waving gown : I think I’m gazing on thy back still. ’Twas not thy soft and silken hair That to my life this charm did lend, Nor thy chignon, though grease was there. No, lady, ’twas the Grecian bend. The poets differ in their choice : Some paint the form and some the dress; But I will raise my tuneful voice To sing the praise of loveliness. Attached am I to Byron’s school; Yet, though that bard was Freedom’s friend, In certain things he was a fool ; He scorned to see a Grecian bend. Fair dames, the bend inspires my lay, Though some laugh at the gentle stoop. I’ve even heard a flunkey say _ You walked like chickens with the croup. Base libel! To the Muse’s mound On Pegasus my way I’ll wend, For wreaths of song to twine around The grand and graceful Grecian bend. “ Where did it come from ? ” is the cry. From Suli’s rock, or Parga’s shore ? "Was it imported by Miss Rye ? Perhaps from Paris it came o’er. Was it known to the Grecian maids When Cadmus first his letters penn’d, And vict’ry flashed fx - om Spartan blades— Did Helen sport the Grecian bend ? No more I’ll sing. Go fill for me A bumper full of Samian wine, And I will go upon the spree, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine. I have no sorrow, joy, nor care, No hate for foe, no love for friend; There’s nothing left me but despair: My heart is broken by the bend. Tom Tallfzrx.

Yelocipeclestrianisticalisarianologist is the latest additi u to the language. Mrs. Murray Keith, a venerable Scotch lady, from whom Sir Walter Scott derived many of the trad tionary stories and anecdotes wr right up in his admirable fictions, taxed him one day with the authorship. which he, as usual, stoutly denied. “ What,” exclaimed the old lady, “ d’ye think I dinna ken my ain groats among other folks’ kail ?”