LADDER OF LOVE.
Men and women,—more or less,—
Have minds o' the self-same metal, mould, and form!—
Doth not the infant love to sport and laugh,
And tie a kettle to a puppy's tail?—
Doth not the dimpled girl her 'kerchief don
(Mocking her elder) mantilla wise—then speed
To mass and noontide visits; where are bandied
Smooth gossip-words of sugared compliment?
But when at budding womanhood arrived,
She casts aside all childish games, nor thinks
Of aught save some gay paranymph—who, caught
In love's stout meshes, flutters round the door,
And fondly beckons her away from home,—
The whilst, her lady mother fain would cage
The foolish bird within its narrow cell!—
And then, the grandame idly wastes her breath,
In venting saws 'bout maiden modesty—
And strict decorum,—from some musty volume:
But the clipp'd wings will quickly sprout again;
And whilst the doating father thinks his child
A paragon of worth and bashfulness,—
Her thoughts are hovering round the precious form
Of her sweet furnace-breathing Don Diego!—
And he, all proof 'gainst dews and nightly blasts,
In breathless expectation waits to see
His panting Rosa at the postern door;—
While she sighs forth "My gentle cavalier!"—
And then they straightway fall to kissing hands,
And antic-gestures—such as lovers use,—
Expressive of their wish quickly to tie
The gordian knot of marriage;—Pretty creatures!—
But why not earlier to have thought of this?—
When he, the innocent youth, was wont to play
At coscogilla; and the prattling girl,
Amid her nursery companions, toiled
In sempstress labours for her wooden dolls.—
Ah! wherefore, did I ask?—Because forsooth,
Their ways are changed with their increasing years!—
For when for gallantry the time be come—
And when the stagnant blood begins to boil
Within the veins, my master—then the lads
Cast longing looks on damosels—for nature
Defies restraint—and kin-birds flock together!—
And think not, Master, Chance disposes thus;
Or were it so, then chance directs us all—
Whene'er we have attain'd the important age!
I, ———, am a living instance!—
Was I not once a lively laughing boy?
And, in my stripling age, did I not love
The pastimes suited to those madcap days?—
Oh! would to heaven those times were present still!
But wherefore fret myself with hopes so vain?—
The silly thought doth find no shelter here,—
That any beauty, with dark roguish eyes,
With sparkling blood, and rising warmth of youth,
Would e'er affect this wrinkled face of mine:—
The very thought doth smack of foolishness!—
And, though the truth may be a bitter pill,
Yet,—
It is most fitting that we know ourselves.
Spanish Comedy—Foreign Review.