THE REPLY.
Dear Exile, I was pleased to get
Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton;
You know that you are all to "Pet,"
I feared that I was quite forgotten:
Mama, who scolds me when I mope,
Insists—and she is wise as gentle—
That I am still in love—I hope
That you are rather sentimental.
Perhaps you think a child should not
Be gay unless her slave is with her;
Of course you love old Rome, and, what
Is more, would like to coax me thither:
What! quit this dear delightful maze
Of calls and balls, to be intensely
Discomfited in fifty ways—
I like your confidence immensely!
Some girls who love to ride and race,
And live for dancing—like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place,
In spite of all the stupid ruins:
I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside those banks of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing—of which
Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer.
To see stone pines, and marble gods,
In garden alleys—red with roses—
The Perch where Pio Nono nods;
The Church where Raphael reposes.
Make pleasant giros—when we may;
Jump stagionate—where they're easy;
And play croquet—the Bruens say
There's turf behind the Ludovisi.
I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee
Says packing books is such a worry;
I'll bring my "Golden Treasury,"
Manzoni—and, of course, a "Murray;"
A Tupper, whom you men despise;
A Dante—Auntie owns a quarto—
I'll try and buy a smaller size,
And read him on the muro torto.
But can I go? La Madre thinks
It would be such an undertaking:—
I wish we could consult a sphynx;—
The thought alone has set her quaking.
Papa—we do not mind Papa—
Has got some "notice" of some "motion,"
And could not stay; but, why not,—Ah,
I've not the very slightest notion.
The Browns have come to stay a week,
They've brought the boys, I haven't thanked 'em,
For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,
Are playing cricket in my sanctum:
Your Rover too affects my den,
And when I pat the dear old whelp, it ...
It makes me think of you, and then ...
And then I cry—I cannot help it.
Ah, yes—before you left me, ere
Our separation was impending,
These eyes had seldom shed a tear—
For mine was joy that knew no ending;
Yes, soon there came a change, too soon:
The first faint cloud that rose to grieve me
Was knowledge I possessed the boon,
And then a fear such bliss might leave me.
This strain is sad: yet, understand,
Your words have made my spirit better:
And when I first took pen in hand,
I meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull,—Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go—I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.
The sun now glances o'er the Park,
If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;
I think I've kissed your rhymes, for—hark!
My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter.
Your blessed words extinguish doubt,
A sudden breeze is gaily blowing,
And, hark! The minster bells ring out—
"She ought to go! Of course she's going."