Hast thou papa?
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth—
Nay—may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount—yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending—
Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown—
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!"
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of "good society" the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!
But farewell,
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone!
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel—
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain—
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!
COME OUT, LOVE. N. P. WILLIS.
Argument.—The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.
Come out, love—the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting—
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,
And love is no better for chilling—
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us—
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)O Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilacs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm—
When—pest!—that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnibus by!
(Though sweet is I SCREAM* when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high)—
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!
*[Footnote: Query—Should this be Ice cream, or I scream?—Printer's
Devil.]
THE WHITE CHIP HAT. N. P. WILLIS.
I pass'd her one day in a hurry,
When late for the Post with a letter—
I think near the corner of Murray—
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a duchess's doing—
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing—
Lovely thing!