UPON JULIA'S MOTHER.
(To depart presently.)
Julia, I deemed that I had wed
Not thine, but only thee;
A child I wept my mother sped,
Thou'st given thine to me.
She came as wandering sea-birds come
To rest upon a spar
Of ships that trail the lights of home
Where homeless billows are.
From Aix-les-Bains to Harrogate,
From Bath to Tunbridge Wells,
She's sojourned in Imperial state,
Yet here content she dwells.
Content—and yet no truce with truth
Such Roman mothers know;
Quick to detect the faults of youth,
And prompt to tell us so.
I knew not I possess'd the charms
Her wandering will to bind,
To keep me from my Julia's arms,
And mould the baby's mind.
When first I held thee to my breast
I little dreamt the day
Another bird would share the nest
As there content to stay.
Thy kindred, dear, I wooed not them,
Such wealth I'd fain resign;
Since I have won the brightest gem
I covet not the mine.
Mrs. R. says that when she thinks the drains are likely to be offensive she invariably uses "bucolic."
