WHO IS HE?
A Reply to Quevedo.
These lines were suggested by some sprightly verses, entitled "Who is She?" that had recently appeared in Fraser's Magazine.
A Spanish writer once decided,
In flippant song,
That woman's lip, or tongue, or eye did
All that went wrong.
Nay, that the true mode of unmasking
Her wiles would be,
On all occasions simply asking—
Pray, who is she?
Now, why must woman's petticoats
Aye be the blamables?
How is't Quevedo never quotes
Mankind's unnamables?
He rates the sex, and certès for it he
Makes a good plea;
But can't I, on as good authority,
Ask, who is he?
Quevedo swears that Eve and Helen
Wrought dire mishaps:
That Adam and the Trojans fell in
Their deep-laid traps.
Eve?—why Diabolus beguiled her;
You know't, Quevedo!
Helen?—that rascal Paris wiled her:
That's Homer's credo!
Trust me, man causes woman's failing;
And, on my life,
He's always wantonly assailing
Maid, widow, wife.
Beneath the surface let the gazer
Look deep—he'll see
Some stronger vessel that betrays her:
Just ask—who's he?
Is it a milk-maid drops her pailful?—
Lubin's love-making:
Is her fate scandalous or baleful?—
Lubin's been raking!
The school-girl loaths her bread and butter,
Pouts o'er her tea,
Mumbles her lessons in a flutter—
Ask, who is he?
Despite experience, what can set
The widow hoping?
Why are wives sometimes gadding met,
And sometimes moping?
Don't talk of widows' amorous bump,
Of wives too free;
But pop the question to them, plump—
Pray, who is he?
We're mighty prompt to throw the blame on
The weaker fair sex;
When justice ought to fix the shame on
Ours—not on their sex.
Ours the seduction and the fooling,
If such there be:
Come; your exception to this ruling—
Pray, who is he?
The old and hump-backed ply their battery
Of gold and jewels;
Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery,
Dance, song, oaths, duels.
So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir,
Upon the Bible,
That to blame one—in place of both, sir,—
Is a gross libel!
TO NINON.
From the French of Alfred de Musset.
Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well,
Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?
Love is the cause of many a pang—their source thou well can'st guess;
No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess:
And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless!
Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed,
Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed;
Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye,
That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy:
"I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.
Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream,
Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem;
A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,—
Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance:
And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.
Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word,
That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard;
Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain,
Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain:
And thine perchance would flashing say, "We must not meet again!"
Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee,
And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee,
Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware,
In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear:
Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be there
But nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold,
Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold.
I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale;
And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail;
Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.
By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean,
When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean,
And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow;
Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go,
I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.
When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night,
And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight,
A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and hold
In jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold,
To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.
I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone.
I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?—I alone!
Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed;
And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest;
But not without a taste of joy—I see thee, and am blest.
No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet:
To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet.
Alas! all proves it—e'en the grief that fain I would dispel.
Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well:
Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?