« AnkstesnisTęsti »
More empty things, I fear, than rhymes,
Reposes mildly in its orbit;
The fickle Muse! As ladies will,
She flies the more that we pursue her;
But cannot comfortably show it.
You thought, no doubt, the garden-scent
Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation
Of love that came and love that went,
Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, Born when the cuckoo changes song,
Dead ere the apple's red is on it, That should have been an epic long, Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet.
Or else you thought,-the murmuring noon,
And windy bough-swing in the metre ;
Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, And medieval orchard blossoms,
Quite à la mode. Alas for prose!—
My vagrant fancies only rambled Back to the red-walled Rectory close,
When first my graceless boyhood gamboled, Climbed on the dial, teased the fish,
And chased the kitten round the beeches, Till widening instincts made me wish
For certain slowly-ripening peaches.
Three peaches. Not the Graces three
The Laws of Property beset them;
Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair
More keen that one of these was rottenMoved me to seek some forest lair
Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, Attired in skins, by berries stained,
Absolved from brushes and ablution;-But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, Fate gave me up to execution.
I saw it all but now. The grin
That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features; My father, scholar-like and thin,
Unroused, the tenderest of creatures; I saw-ah me—I saw again
My dear and deprecating mother; And then, remembering the cane, Regretted that I'd left the Other.
AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY.
Ou ne romprons-nous pas ?”
LE DÉPIT AMOUREUX.
FI were you, when ladies at the play, sir,
If I were you, when persons I affected,
Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew,
I would, at least, pretend I recollected,
If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,
I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish
If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer
If I were you!
If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter,
No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,
Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,
Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;
Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful,
"It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is