The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth

Sweet Coz! as brother calls you—oh
I wish we had you in the city.
When he was here, some time ago,
He told me, puss, that you were pretty!
And I have never seen you yet!
No matter—for the winter 's flying,
And pa has promised—I'm his pet—
We'll come when summer gales are sighing.

But still, I wish we had you here,
I 've such delightful news to tell you!
My heart is gone, dear coz! oh, dear!
Has ever such a thing befell you?
I hope your box came safe to hand,
With pelerine, lace veil, and corsets,
Cornelian ear-rings, breastpin—and
A chain and seal like Emma D---t's.

Your ma's new cap—I hope it suits—
Tell her it was by me selected,

As was the pair of gaiter-boots—
Heigh-ho! my spirits feel dejected!
I told you that my heart was lost—
Perhaps 't is but the blues oppress me;
For though I'm pleased with Major F---t,
He wants the courage to address me.

I saw him first, at Grand-Val's ball,
I met him afterward at Parker's;
But, oh! at Conway's concert hall—
He waited on the Misses B---rs!
The one a pug-nosed, short old maid,
The other, tall, slim, lean, and yellow!
They stumbled through the gallopade—
I felt so vexed!—the stupid fellow!

Though introduced, we had not yet
Exchanged a dozen words together,
Excepting something, I forget,
About the opera and weather.
As partners in the gallopade,
You know, of course, we often parted:
Nor cared we how the music played,
But always met just where we started.

His voice is manly, sweet, and clear,
With tones most musically tender:
His shape—Apollo Belvidere
Is not so exquisitely slender.

And then he 's brave as Cæsar, too,
Or Alexander, or Hephestion;
Oh, coz! what could I say or do,
If he should only pop the question?

His manners are so mild and bland,
Though once, 't is said, he fought a duel;
He whispered something—pressed my hand—
Would you advise me to be cruel?
Of course, you know I answered not,
For ma says I'm too young to marry;
I blushed—looked down—I do n't know what
I might have said—His name is Harry.

He makes up parties when he can,
Of course 't is when I know the misses;
They 're on the old New England plan—
But pa denounces pawns and kisses;
Though we suspect he liked them once—
But mum! mamma has no suspicion;
Aunt says he was not thought a dunce,
When beaux were once in requisition.

But let that pass—he 's older now;
In June next I am one-and-twenty!
You never saw so sweet a bow
As Harry's—though you 've seen a plenty.

His hair is brown, his whiskers dark,
His ringlets round his temples cluster;
His eyes you could not fail to mark,
They shine with such a dazzling lustre.

And then he writes such poetry!
You must have read it in the Mirror—
“To Miss H. M.”—and that means me,
For think you there is any dearer?
And such conundrums!—he 's the life
Of all our social evening revels;
Oh! when I once become his wife,
Adieu to vapors and blue-devils!

I saw him in the grand parade,
Curbing a milk-white, prancing charger,
With sash and epaulets displayed—
I wished his chapeau-bras was larger.
He marched his troops down East Broadway,
I saw them from the doctor's window,
And caught his eye—that single ray
Had almost made my heart a cinder!

Adieu, sweet coz—I'll let you know,
When we have fixed the day to marry;
And may you get as sweet a beau
As Major F---t, my charming Harry.

When Cupid aims his feathered dart,
I hope no obstacle will parry it;
Such wounds are grateful to the heart—
So I remain your cousin—Harriet.

P. S.

Alas! dear coz, my hopes are crossed!
My late bright prospects now are darker,
For pa just told me Major F---t
Last evening married Ellen B---er;
And that they 've been for years attached,
The tall, slim, gawky! lean and yellow!—
But never mind—they 're quite well matched—
I never could endure the fellow!—H. M.

University of Virginia Library

POETICAL EPISTLE.

FROM A YOUNG LADY IN NEW YORK TO HER COUSIN IN DETROIT.