Thou wilt repose within mine arms,
Whilst with thy fair gold tresses
I sport, and thy dear darling head
My shoulder gently presses!
Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
To truth will turn my vision,
And here on earth shall I enjoy
The highest bliss elysian.
St. Thomas! Scarce can I believe
The fact, my doubts will linger
Until upon my rapture’s wounds
I lay my eager finger.
WHITHER NOW?
Whither now? my stupid foot
Fain to Germany would guide me;
But my reason shakes its head
Wisely, seeming thus to chide me:
“Ended is the war indeed,
“But they still keep up courts-martial,
“And to writing things esteem’d
“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”
That’s quite true, and being shot
Has for me no great attractions;
I’m no hero, and unskill’d
In pathetic words and actions.
Fain to England would I go,
View’d I not with such displeasure
Englishmen and coals—their smell
Makes me sick beyond all measure.
To America methinks
I would sail the broad seas over;
To that place of freedom where
All alike may live in clover,
Did I not detest a land
Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,
Where they never use spittoons,
And so strangely play at skittles.