I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot, (How charming that old-fashioned puce is!) All blooming in laces, fal-lals, and what not, At the PUMP ROOM,-Miss Molly Trefusis. I fancy her reigning,-a Beauty,-a Toast,- And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast, The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis. He says she was "VENUS." I doubt it. Beside, (Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!) His "little" could scarce be to Venus applied, No, no. It was HEBE he had in his mind; And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled-you'll find— Then he calls her "a MUSE." To the charge I reply That we all of us know what a Muse is; It is something too awful,-too acid,-too dry,For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis. But "a GRACE." There I grant he was probably right; (The rest but a verse-making ruse is) It was all that was graceful,-intangible,-light,The beauty of Molly Trefusis! Assuredly more than obtuse is; For how could the poet have written so pat And was wed? That I think we must plainly infer, Since of suitors the common excuse is To take to them Wives. So it happened to her, To the Bard? 'Tis unlikely. Apollo, you see, 'Twas a Knight of the Shire, and a hunting J.P., And you'll find, I conclude, in the "Gentleman's At the end, where the pick of the news is, "On the (blank), at the Bath,' to Sir Hilary Bragg, With a Fortune, MISS MOLLY TREFUSIS." Thereupon... But no farther the student may pry So here, at the threshold we part, you and I, AT THE CONVENT GATE WISTARIA blossoms trail and fall Above the length of barrier wall; And softly, now and then, The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit From roof to gateway-top, and sit And watch the ways of men. The gate's ajar. If one might peep! The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go, Look, there is one that tells her beads; And see, beside the well, the two Not beautiful-not all! But each AT THE CONVENT GATE The Veil unseen that women wear "A placid life-a peaceful life! What need to these the name of Wife? What worthier-e'en your arts among- "No worthier task!" re-echoes She, Who (closelier clinging) turns with me To face the road again: -And yet, in that warm heart of hers, She means the doves', for she prefers To"watch the ways of men." THE MILKMAID A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE ACROSS the grass 1 see her pass; She comes with tripping pace,— A maid I know, and March winds blow Her hair across her face ; With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, The March winds blow. I watch her go: Her eye is brown and clear; Her cheek is brown, and soft as down, (To those who see it near!)— With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly! Dolly shall be mine, Before the spray is white with May, What has she not that those have got,— The dames that walk in silk! If she undo her 'kerchief blue, Her neck is white as milk. |