Marion Dale, I remember you once,
In the days when you blushed like a rose half-blown,
Long ere that wealthy respectable dunce
Sponged up your beautiful name in his own.
I remember you, Marion Dale,
Artless and cordial and modest and sweet:
You never walked in that glittering mail
That covers you now from your head to your feet.
Well I remember your welcoming smile,
When Alice and Annie and Edward and I
Came over to see you;—you lived but a mile
From my uncle's old house, and the grove that stood nigh.
I was no lover of yours, (pray, excuse me!)—
Our minds were different in texture and hue:
I never gave you a chance to refuse me;
Already I loved one less changeful than you.
Still it was ever a pride and a pleasure
Just to be near you,—the Rose of our vale.
Often I thought, "Who will own such a treasure?
Who win the rich love of our Marion Dale?"
I wonder now if you ever remember,
Ever sigh over fifteen years ago,—
Whether your June is all turned to December,—
Whether your life now is happy or no.
Gone are those winters of chats and of dances!
Gone are those summers of picnics and rides!
Gone the aroma of life's young romances!
Gone the swift flow of our passionate tides!
Marion Dale,—no longer our Marion,—
You have gone your way, and I have gone mine:
Lowly I've labored, while fashion's gay clarion
Trumpets your name through the waltz and the wine.
And when I meet you, your smile it is colder;
Statelier, prouder your features have grown;
Rounder each white and magnificent shoulder;
(Rather too low-necked your waist, I must own.)
Jewelled and muslined, your rich hair gold-netted,
Queenly 'mid flattering voices you move,—
Half to your own native graces indebted,
Half to the station and fortune you love.