Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/A Coat-of-Arms

by Sarah Piatt

A COAT-OF-ARMS

Rose says her family is so old—
 Older than yours, perhaps? Ah, me!
. . . (How wise she is! Who could have told
 So much to such a child as she?

If these sweet sisters teach her this,
 Their veils are vanity, I fear.) . . .
Pray, what comes next, my lovely miss?
 ——— You want a coat-of-arms, my dear!

Ah!—other people have such things?
 Rose had ancestors, too—an earl?
Tell Rose you have the blood of kings,
 And show it—when you blush, my girl!

I am not jesting; I could name,
 Among the greatest, one or two
Who have the right (divine) to claim
 Remote relationship with you.

Alfred—who never burned a cake!
 Arthur—who had no Table Round,
Nor knight like Launcelot of the Lake,
 Nor ruled one rood of British ground!

Lear, who outraved the storm—at most
 The crown is straw that crowns old age;
And Hamlet's father———he's a ghost?
 A real ghost, though—on the stage!

Edwards and Henrys—and of these
 Old Bluebeard Hal, from whom you take
Your own bluff manners, if you please!
 ———Let's love him, for Queen Catherine's sake!

Richard from Holy Land, who heard—
 Or did not hear—poor Blondel's song;
That other Richard, too, the Third,
 Whom Shakespeare does a grievous wrong;

But—still he murdered in the Tower
 The pretty princes? Charles, whose head,
At Cromwell's breath, fell as a flower
 Falls at the frost—as I have read.

Another Charles, who had the crown
 Of Spain and Germany to hold,
But at a cloister laid it down,
 And kept two hollow hands to fold.

Philip the Handsome, who will rise
 From his old grave, the legends say,
And show the sun those Flemish eyes
 That———yes, I mean at Judgment Day,

Louis the Grand———Madam is so
 Like some one at his court, you hear
These Washington reporters, though,
 Were never at his court, I fear!

Great Frederick, with his snuff (I may
 Say something of great Peter, too),
And one who made kings out of clay,
 And lost the world at Waterloo!

Of others, more than I could write,—
 In some still cave scarce known to men
One sleeps, in his long beard's red light,
 A hundred years—then sleeps again;

One—who with all his peerage fell
 By Fontarabia—sat forlorn
In jewelled death at Aix———ah! well,
 Who listens now for Roland's horn?

One who was half a god, they say,
 Cried for the stars—and died of wine;
One pushed the crown of Rome away—
 And Antony's speech was very fine!

. . . The Shah of Persia, too? Why, yes,
 He and his overcoat, no doubt.
Oh, the Khedive will send, I guess,
 Half Egypt^[1]—when he finds you out!

Victor of Italy, the Czar,
 Franz-Joseph, the sweet Spanish youth,
And Prussian William,—these are all
 Your kinsmen, child, in very truth.

Your coat-of-arms, then I forgot
 Some kings, the oldest, wisest, best;—
Take Jason's golden fleece,—why not?
 Put Solomon's seal upon your crest.

There I can prove your Family's ties
 Bind you to all the great, I trust:
Its Founder lived in Paradise;
 And his ancestor was—the Dust.

Can Rose say more? . . . Your ancient Tree
 Must hold a sword of fire (its root
Down in the very grave must be)
 With serpent and—Forbidden Fruit.

1. Allusion to the Khedive's present to an American lady, 1875.