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A GAGE D'AMOUR.
(HORACE, III, 8.)
“Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis,
HARLES,- for it seems you wish to know,
You wonder what could scare me so,
With trembling fingers,
Of perfume lingers.
Friend of my youth, severe as true,
To indigestion ;
Your cynic question.
Some-one who is not girlish now,
Affects us keenly;
And smile serenely.
“My golden locks” are gray and chill,
Went dancing through me,
That beckoned to me.
We shut our heart up, now-a-days,
Its lover's ditty.
Laugh, if you like. The boy in me,-
Of old, was tender.
As young, or slender.
She twirled the flimsy scarf about
Of childish pleasure.
And Gladstone's measure.
Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate.
Its wonted station.
I pour libation.
0, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
“Shall we twirl down the middle?" 0, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle !
T runs (so saith my Chronicler)
Across a smoky City;-
Huge, gloomy, black and gritty; Dark-louring looks the hill-side near,
Dark-yawning looks the valley,– But here 'tis always fresh and clear,
For here-is “Cupid's Alley."
And, from an Arbour cool and green,
With aspect down the middle, An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean,
Scrapes on an ancient fiddle ;
Alert he seems, but aged enow
To punt the Stygian galley ;With wisp of forelock on his brow,
He plays-in“ Cupid's Alley."
All day he plays,
,-a single tune ! But, by the oddest chances, Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon,
It suits all kinds of dances;
To Jenny's pas de Chalet ;-
Can dance-in “Cupid's Alley ”
And here, for ages yet untold,
Long, long before my ditty, Came high and low, and
And just as fancies tally,
All day-in "Cupid's Alley."
Strange dance ! 'Tis free to Rank and Rags;
Here no distinction flatters,
And Poverty its tatters;