I PASS'D her one day in a hurry,
When late for the Post with a letter-
I think near the corner of Murray—
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a duchess's doing-
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing-
Lovely thing!
Surprising !—one woman can dish us
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious-
Chip hat without flower or feather-
Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,
Her waist like the cup of a lily—
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the saucy and silly—
Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
There's reason in tearing one's tether-
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as you know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney—
But I said a bad word-for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney-
Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd-
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses—
And the star that "swaps" light with a candle,
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes !—
Not the thing!
As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair-
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair-
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less-
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars-
Lo I-a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love-
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That vail of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window-lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringéd vail,
Like an adventurous bird that would escape
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringéd window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!
'T was late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden—and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
Earnestly on me-She had been asleep!
THEY may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine-
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelier— With music to play in the pauses, And nobody very near:
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
Your love in a cottage is hungry,
Your vine is a nest for flies-
Your milkmaid shocks the Graces,
And simplicity talks of pies!
You lie down to your shady slumber
And wake with a bug in your ear,
And your damsel that walks in the morning
Is shod like a mountaineer.
True love is at home on a carpet,
And mightily likes his ease-
And true love has an eye for a dinner,
And starves beneath shady trees.
His wing is the fan of a lady,
His foot's an invisible thing,
And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel,
And shot from a silver string.
NAY, lady, one frown is enough
In a life as soon over as this
And though minutes seem long in a huff,
They 're minutes 'tis pity to miss!
The smiles you imprison so lightly
Are reckon'd, like days in eclipse;
And though you may smile again brightly,
You've lost so much light from your lips!
Pray, lady, smile!
The cup that is longest untasted
May be with our bliss running o'er,
And, love when we will, we have wasted
An age in not loving before!
Perchance Cupid's forging a fetter
To tie us together some day,
And, just for the chance, we had better
Be laying up love, I should say !
Nay, lady, smile!
THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.
I WROTE Some lines, once on a time,
In wondrous merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!
"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."
He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad,
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar ;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
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