Time passes, my watch how I con it!
I see her—she's coming—no, stuff!
Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet,
It is aunt, and her wonderful muff!
(Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden,
It is a coincidence queer,
Whenever one wants to be hidden,
One's relatives always appear.)
Near nine! how the passers despise me,
They smile at my anguish, I think;
And even the sentinel eyes me,
And tips that policeman the wink.
Ah! Kate made me promises solemn,
At eight she had vowed to be mine;—
While waiting for one at this column,
I find I've been waiting for nine.
O Fame! on thy pillar so steady,
Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:—
How many have done it already!
How many will do it again!
IMPLORA PACE.
(ONE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.)
One hundred years! a long, long scroll
Of dust to dust, and woe,
How soon my passing knell will toll!
Is Death a friend or foe?
My days are often sad—and vain
Is much that tempts me to remain
—And yet I'm loth to go.
Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore—
Go hence, and then be seen no more?
I love to think that those I loved
May gather round the bier
Of him, who, whilst he erring proved,
Still held them more than dear.
My friends wax fewer day by day,
Yes, one by one, they drop away,
And if I shed no tear,
Dear parted Shades, whilst life endures,
This poor heart yearns for love—and yours!