And where'er shall be her home, May she decorate the place; THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, She comes from the past and revisits my room; 453 PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT. As on this pictured page I look, I know them both, the boy and girl; My lord the County's page is. A pleasant place for such a pair! Young progeny of chickens. It is too hot to pace the keep; His noonday dinner over. The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep); Their lines into the brook they launch; He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection! O heedless pair of sportsmen slack! Your baited snares may capture. Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture. Upon the girl who smiles always, Upon the lover's shoulder; In looking at your pretty shapes, To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; And never heed its brawling. the rose upon MY BALCONY. THE rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen: And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, Thus each performs his part, Mamma: the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why. "Our lady's old and feeble now," They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair, And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, And heartless left him to despair : The lover lies in silent earth, No kindly mate the lady cheers; With threescore and ten years!" |