3
I praised her, but no praise could fill
The depths of her desire to please,
Though dull to others as a Will
To them that have no legacies.
The more I praised the more she shone,
Her eyes incredulously bright,
And all her happy beauty blown
Beneath the beams of my delight.
Sweet rivalry was thus begot;
By turns, my speech, in passion’s style,
With flatteries the truth o’ershot,
And she surpass’d them with her smile.
4
‘You have my heart so sweetly seiz’d,
And I confess, nay, ’tis my pride
That I’m with you so solely pleased,
That, if I’m pleased with aught beside,
As music, or the month of June,
My friend’s devotion, or his wit,
A rose, a rainbow, or the moon,
It is that you illustrate it.
All these are parts, you are the whole;
You fit the taste for Paradise,
To which your charms draw up the soul
As turning spirals draw the eyes.
Nature to you was more than kind;
’Twas fond perversity to dress
So much simplicity of mind
In such a pomp of loveliness!
But, praising you, the fancy deft
Flies wide, and lets the quarry stray,
And, when all’s said, there’s something left,
And that’s the thing I meant to say.’
‘Dear Felix!’ ‘Sweet, my Love!’ But there
Was Aunt Maude’s noisy ring and knock!
‘Stay, Felix; you have caught my hair.
Stoop! Thank you!’ ‘May I have that lock?’
‘Not now. Good morning, Aunt!’ ‘Why, Puss,
You look magnificent to-day.’
‘Here’s Felix, Aunt.’ ‘Fox and green goose!
Who handsome gets should handsome pay!
Aunt, you are friends!’ ‘Ah, to be sure!
Good morning! Go on flattering, sir;
A woman, like the Koh-i-noor,
Mounts to the price that’s put on her.’
CANTO IX.
The Friends.
PRELUDES.
I.
The Nursling of Civility.
Lo, how the woman once was woo’d;
Forth leapt the savage from his lair,
And fell’d her, and to nuptials rude
He dragg’d her, bleeding, by the hair.
From that to Chloe’s dainty wiles
And Portia’s dignified consent,
What distance! Bat these Pagan styles
How far below Time’s fair intent!
Siegfried sued Kriemhild. Sweeter life
Could Love’s self covet? Yet ’tis snug
In what rough sort he chid his wife
For want of curb upon her tongue!
Shall Love, where last I leave him, halt?
Nay; none can fancy or forsee
To how strange bliss may time exalt
This nursling of civility.
II.
The Foreign Land.
A woman is a foreign land,
Of which, though there he settle young,
A man will ne’er quite understand
The customs, politics, and tongue.
The foolish hie them post-haste through,
See fashions odd, and prospects fair,
Learn of the language, ‘How d’ye do,’
And go and brag they have been there.
The most for leave to trade apply,
For once, at Empire’s seat, her heart,
Then get what knowledge ear and eye
Glean chancewise in the life-long mart.
And certain others, few and fit,
Attach them to the Court, and see
The Country’s best, its accent hit,
And partly sound its polity.