The poetical works of the late Thomas Little [i.e. Thomas Moore] The eleventh edition |
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FANNY OF TIMMOL.
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 | The poetical works of the late Thomas Little [i.e. Thomas Moore] |  |
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FANNY OF TIMMOL.
A MAIL-COACH ADVENTURE.
Quadrigis petimus bene vivere.
Horace.
Sweet Fanny of Timmol! when first you came in
To the close little carriage in which I was hurl'd,
I thought to myself, if it were not a sin,
I could teach you the prettiest tricks in the world.
To the close little carriage in which I was hurl'd,
I thought to myself, if it were not a sin,
I could teach you the prettiest tricks in the world.
For your dear little lips, to their destiny true,
Seem'd to know they were born for the use of another;
And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
Were eternally biting and kissing each other.
Seem'd to know they were born for the use of another;
And, to put me in mind of what I ought to do,
Were eternally biting and kissing each other.
And then you were darting from eyelids so sly,—
Half open, half shutting,—such tremulous light:
Let them say what they will, I could read in your eye
More comical things than I ever shall write.
Half open, half shutting,—such tremulous light:
Let them say what they will, I could read in your eye
More comical things than I ever shall write.
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And oft as we mingled our legs and our feet,
I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether
In yours or in mine—but I know it was sweet,
And I think we both felt it and trembled together.
I felt a pulsation, and cannot tell whether
In yours or in mine—but I know it was sweet,
And I think we both felt it and trembled together.
At length when arriv'd, at our supper we sat,
I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain,
That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that,
And Fanny should go back to Timmol again.
I heard with a sigh, which had something of pain,
That perhaps our last moment of meeting was that,
And Fanny should go back to Timmol again.
Yet I swore not that I was in love with you, Fanny,—
Oh, no! for I felt it could never be true;
I but said what I've said very often to many—
There's few I would rather be kissing than you!
Oh, no! for I felt it could never be true;
I but said what I've said very often to many—
There's few I would rather be kissing than you!
Then first did I learn that you once had believ'd
Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men;
And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceiv'd,
That I thought you perhaps might be tempted again.
Some lover, the dearest and falsest of men;
And so gently you spoke of the youth who deceiv'd,
That I thought you perhaps might be tempted again.
But you told me that passion a moment amus'd,
Was follow'd too oft by an age of repenting;
And check'd me so softly, that while you refus'd,
Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 'twas consenting!
Was follow'd too oft by an age of repenting;
And check'd me so softly, that while you refus'd,
Forgive me, dear girl, if I thought 'twas consenting!
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And still I entreated, and still you denied,
Till I almost was made to believe you sincere;
Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you sigh'd,
And when you repuls'd me, 'twas done with a tear.
Till I almost was made to believe you sincere;
Though I found that, in bidding me leave you, you sigh'd,
And when you repuls'd me, 'twas done with a tear.
In vain did I whisper “There's nobody nigh;”
In vain with the tremors of passion implore;
Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply—
I acknowledg'd them both, and I ask'd for no more.
In vain with the tremors of passion implore;
Your excuse was a kiss, and a tear your reply—
I acknowledg'd them both, and I ask'd for no more.
Was I right?—oh! I cannot believe I was wrong.
Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again;
And may Providence guide her uninjur'd along,
Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain!
Poor Fanny is gone back to Timmol again;
And may Providence guide her uninjur'd along,
Nor scatter her path with repentance and pain!
By Heav'n! I would rather for ever forswear
The elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast,
Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there,
Or banish the dove from so hallow'd a nest!
The elysium that dwells on a beautiful breast,
Than alarm for a moment the peace that is there,
Or banish the dove from so hallow'd a nest!
| The poetical works of the late Thomas Little [i.e. Thomas Moore] | |