THY SPANISH LOVES.
(To Alfred de Musset.)
Ah yes! thy Spanish loves, O sweet-lipped brother poet—
I know their glory well.
What poet ever loved dark eyes, and does not know it,—
And knowing it, now knows not heaven, and hell?
First heaven, then hell,—and heaven and hell again and so on.
When dark eyes are in vogue
Satan wakes up and calls his carriage. What will go on
He knows full well,—the rogue!
Dark eyes and coal-black hair,—and murder and adultery
And other suchlike things.
Love stops at nothing in Spain. The Spanish skies are sultry
And,—God! how sweetly a Spanish soft laugh rings!
Blue eyes mean nothing much; but dark eyes mean the devil,—
The devil and all his train.
They mean long nights when wild loosehaired mad sweet dreams revel
Till morning blushes at the pane!
And when the Spanish eyes and Spanish locks in London
Gleam tenderly, good Lord!
All sober vows and strict resolves are straightway undone.
Does conscience speak? You pink him with your sword!
If Spanish eyes and hair could madden a French poet
In France or sunny Spain
They madden thrice as much in this pale land,—I know it,
And give us thrice the pleasure, and thrice the pain.
Dec., 1882.
