Volume Iv Part 20 (1/2)
If he speaks of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,-- My own Araminta, say ”No!”
He must walk like a G.o.d of old story Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh! from its ivory portal Like music his soft speech must flow!-- If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say ”No!”
Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth; But give him a theme to write verse on, And see if he turns out his toe;-- If he's only an excellent person, My own Araminta, say ”No!”
Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]
A NICE CORRESPONDENT
”There are plenty of roses” (the patriarch speaks) ”Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks; Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare, Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair.”
The glow and the glory are plighted To darkness, for evening is come; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb.
I'm alone, for the others have flitted To dine with a neighbor at Kew: Alone, but I'm not to be pitied-- I'm thinking of you!
I wish you were here! Were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color-- Dear Fred, how I wish you were here!
I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fastened askew!
Was there ever so rude or so reckless A Darling as you?
I want you to come and pa.s.s sentence On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know ”Janet's Repentance”?
I am reading Sir Waverley Scott.
That story of Edgar and Lucy, How thrilling, romantic, and true!
The Master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.
They tell me c.o.c.kaigne has been crowning A Poet whose garland endures;-- It was you that first told me of Browning,-- That stupid old Browning of yours!
His vogue and his verve are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due; But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming A Poet as you!
I heard how you shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer.
There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, Dear Fred, I believe it, I do!
Small marvel that Folly is making Her Idol of you!
Alas for the World, and its dearly Bought triumph,--its fugitive bliss; Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless Miss; But, perhaps, one is blest with ”a measure Of pelf,” and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My Darling, to you!
Your whim is for frolic and fas.h.i.+on, Your taste is for letters and art;-- This rhyme is the commonplace pa.s.sion That glows in a fond woman's heart: Lay it by in some sacred deposit For relics--we all have a few!
Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was written to You.
Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]
HER LETTER
I'm sitting alone by the fire, Dressed just as I came from the dance, In a robe even you would admire,-- It cost a cool thousand in France; I'm be-diamonded out of all reason, My hair is done up in a cue: In short, sir, ”the belle of the season”
Is wasting an hour upon you.
A dozen engagements I've broken; I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits--on the stairs--for me yet.
They say he'll be rich,--when he grows up,-- And then he adores me indeed; And you, sir, are turning your nose up, Three thousand miles off, as you read.