A CHARADE.
FOR WILLIE WINKIE
So Will, my lad, you beg that I'll
Concoct you a charade;
Well, dear, here goes: My first is first
Your favorite little maid;
The hearts of roses too are it,
And vine-blooms under which I sit;
And childhood's dreams, and sinless thoughts,
And tones attuned to love,
"The uses of adversity,"
The cooings of the dove,
And Lilly's eyes, and Kitty's lips,
And Tommy's 'lassed finger-tips.
My second was the royal name
Of England's conquering foe.
Who set his foot on Saxon necks
Eight hundred years ago;
The name too of a poet-king,
Who still rules many a land;
No soldier he, but a knightlier soul
Did ne'er shake spear or brand.
My whole is no exotic rare,
A common flower found everywhere;
In form 't is somewhat like the pink,
But its scent is finer, I declare,
Than musk, or your patchouli.
You 've guessed it now, I really think,
So I'll refrain from wasting ink.
Sweet Will, I am
Yours truly,
GRACE GREENWOOD.