"My darling wants to see you soon,"—
I bless the little maid, and thank her;
To do her bidding, night and noon
I draw on Hope—Love's kindest banker!
Old MSS.
If you were false, and if I'm free,
I still would be the slave of yore,
Then joined our years were thirty-three,
And now,—yes now, I'm thirty-four!
And though you were not learnèd—well,
I was not anxious you should grow so,—
I trembled once beneath her spell
Whose spelling was extremely so-so!
Bright season! why will Memory
Still haunt the path our rambles took;
The sparrow's nest that made you cry,—
The lilies captured in the brook.
I lifted you from side to side,
You seemed as light as that poor sparrow;
I know who wished it twice as wide,
I think you thought it rather narrow.
Time was,—indeed, a little while!
My pony did your heart compel;
But once, beside the meadow-stile,
I thought you loved me just as well;
I kissed your cheek; in sweet surprise
Your troubled gaze said plainly, "Should he?"
But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes,—
"He could not wish to vex me, could he?"
As year succeeds to year, the more
Imperfect life's fruition seems,
Our dreams, as baseless as of yore,
Are not the same enchanting dreams.
The girls I love now vote me slow—
How dull the boys who once seemed witty!
Perhaps I'm getting old—I know
I'm still romantic—more's the pity!
Ah, vain regret! to few, perchance,
Unknown—and profitless to all:
The wisely-gay, as years advance,
Are gaily-wise. Whate'er befall
We'll laugh—at folly, whether seen
Beneath a chimney or a steeple,
At yours, at mine—our own, I mean,
As well as that of other people.
They cannot be complete in aught,
Who are not humorously prone,
A man without a merry thought
Can hardly have a funny-bone!
To say I hate your gloomy men
Might be esteemed a strong assertion,
If I've blue devils, now and then,
I make them dance for my diversion.
And here's your letter débonnaire!
"My friend, my dear old friend of yore,"
And is this curl your daughter's hair?
I've seen the Titian tint before.
Are we that pair who used to pass
Long days beneath the chesnuts shady?
You then were such a pretty lass!—
I'm told you're now as fair a lady.
I've laughed to hide the tear I shed,
As when the Jester's bosom swells,
And mournfully he shakes his head,
We hear the jingle of his bells.
A jesting vein your poet vexed,
And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine,
Without a parson, or a text,
Has proved a somewhat prosy sermon.