 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
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Enigma No. 10.
The royal sun with his orbèd flameTo be myself I modestly claim;
And yet, though strange, it is perfectly true,
I am at this moment within your shoe.
Have you a delicate hand to show?
Its symmetry partly to me you owe;
And I cannot think how you can possibly see
If deprived in another part of me.
The ancient dame, with her spectacled nose,
By my strange contortions I often pose,
As I glide away from her busy hand
To rejoice the juvenile feline band.
I am a being of direful power,
And many I haste to their last dread hour;
Yet the tiny child on his feeble feet
Is gladdened and charmed by my motions fleet.
I am said to whistle, though not to sigh;
Merriment often to hundreds I bring.
On due inquiry I think you will find
That twenty people in me have dined;
Yet when at dinner you take your seat
I'm sometimes the very first thing you eat.
Who patronise me? The college youth,
Loving me better than books in truth;
The friends of science, the friends of strife,
The duellist seeking his fellow's life,
Of sharpers and blacklegs not a few,
Equine doctors frequently too,
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In the list the graceful and fair we mix;
And last, not least, our gracious Queen
My patroness certainly ever hath been.
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