To know how I shall really bear And when, arrived so far, you say In tragic accents Then, Lydia, then And firmly answer Go," I still shall stay, No. A GAGE D'AMOUR. (HORACE, III., 8.) "Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis CHARLES,—for it seems you wish to know,— You wonder what could scare me so, And why, in this long-locked bureau, With tragic air, I now replace This ancient web of yellow lace, Among whose faded folds the trace Of perfume lingers. Friend of my youth, severe as true, To indigestion ; I had forgotten it was there, A scarf that Some-one used to wear. Hinc illæ lacrima,- so spare Your cynic question. Some-one who is not girlish now, And wed long since. We meet and bow; Affects us keenly; Yet, trifling though my act appears, Your Sternes would make it ground for tears; — One can't disturb the dust of years, And smile serenely. "My golden locks" are gray and chill, For hers, let them be sacred still; But yet, I own, a boyish thrill Went dancing through me, We shut our heart up, now-a-days, Derisive pity; Alas, a nothing starts the spring; And lo, the sentimental thing At once commences quavering Its lover's ditty. Laugh, if you like. The boy in me, The boy that was, - revived to see The fresh young smile that shone when she, Once more we trod the Golden Way, – And I, whom none can well portray, She twirled the flimsy scarf about Where we were bound no mortal knows, Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. Its wonted station. Pass me the wine. To Those that keep Peaceful, inviolate, and deep, I pour libation! A whisper, a glance,— "Shall we twirl down the middle?" O, Love's but a dance, IT Where Time plays the fiddle! T runs (so saith my Chronicler) A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, And, from an Arbour cool and green |