Part 5 (1/2)

How kind to come! it was for my Especial grace meant!

Had you a chamber near the stars, A bird,--some treasured plants in jars, About your cas.e.m.e.nt?

I often wander up and down, When morning bathes the silent town In golden glory: Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard Your thrilling-toned canary-bird From some third story.

I've seen great changes since we met;-- A patient little seamstress yet, With small means striving, Have you a Lilliputian spouse?

And do you dwell in some doll's house?

--Is baby thriving?

Can bloom like thine--my heart grows chill-- Have sought that bourne unwelcome still To bosom smarting?

The most forlorn--what worms we are!-- Would wish to finish this cigar Before departing.

Sometimes I to Pall Mall repair, And see the damsels pa.s.sing there; But if I try to Obtain one glance, they look discreet, As though they'd some one else to meet;-- As have not _I_ too?

Yet still I often think upon Our many meetings, come and gone!

July--December!

Now let us make a tryst, and when, Dear little soul, we meet again,-- The mansion is preparing--then Thy Friend remember!

GERALDINE.

This simple child has claims On your sentiment--her name's Geraldine.

Be tender--but beware, For she's frolicsome as fair, And fifteen.

She has gifts that have not cloyed, For these gifts she has employed, And improved: She has bliss which lives and leans Upon loving--and that means She is loved.

She has grace. A grace refined By sweet harmony of mind: And the Art, And the blessed Nature, too, Of a tender, and a true Little heart.

And yet I must not vault Over any little fault That she owns: Or others might rebel, And might enviously swell In their zones.

She is tricksy as the fays, Or her p.u.s.s.y when it plays With a string: She's a goose about her cat, And her ribbons--and all that Sort of thing.

These foibles are a blot, Still she never can do what Is not nice, Such as quarrel, and give slaps-- As I've known her get, perhaps, Once or twice.

The spells that move her soul Are subtle--sad or droll-- She can show That virtuoso whim Which consecrates our dim Long-ago.

A love that is not sham For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb; And I've known Cordelia's sad eyes Cause angel-tears to rise In her own.

Her gentle spirit yearns When she reads of Robin Burns-- Luckless Bard!

Had she blossomed in thy time, How rare had been the rhyme --And reward!

Thrice happy then is he Who, planting such a Tree, Sees it bloom To shelter him--indeed We have sorrow as we speed To our doom!