White little lily! pray tell me when
Thy happiest moments the fates allow thee?
Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men,
And all the boys and butterflies know thee;
Is it at dawn or at sunset hour
That pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing?
One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks,
Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling?
Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd,
My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling,
To live in the sight, and to die on the breast
Of the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.
Oh! would that I were the moon myself,
Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing;
Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem
Slily around that dear neck wreathing!
Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes,
Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses,
My heart and my soul, and my body to boot,
For merely the smallest of all her kisses!
And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth!
I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling,
Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus both
In exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!
A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.
They 're stepping off, the friends I knew,
They 're going one by one;
They 're taking wives to tame their lives,
Their jovial days are done;
I can't get one old crony now
To join me in a spree;
They've all grown grave, domestic men,
They look askance on me.
I hate to see them sober'd down,
The merry boys and true,
I hate to hear them sneering now
At pictures fancy drew;
I care not for their married cheer,
Their puddings and their soups,
And middle-aged relations round,
In formidable groups.
And though their wife perchance may have
A comely sort of face,
And at the table's upper end
Conduct herself with grace,
I hate the prim reserve that reigns,
The caution and the state,
I hate to see my friend grow vain
Of furniture and plate.
Oh, give me back the days again,
When we have wander'd free,
And stole the dew from every flower,
The fruit from every tree;
The friends I loved they will not come,
They've all deserted me;
They sit at home and toast their toes,
Look stupid and sip tea.
Alas! alas! for years gone by,
And for the friends I've lost;
When no warm feeling of the heart
Was chill'd by early frost.
If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
I'd have him shun my door,
Unless he quench his torch, and live
Henceforth a bachelor.