 | Valentine Verses |  |
131
THE STORY.
List to the tale. 'Twas thus, Sir, I
In early life, the school annoy'd,
When scarce a boy durst turn his eye,
So horrified, so overjoy'd,
To hear the ghost or goblin tread,
Or see some phantom of the dead.
In early life, the school annoy'd,
When scarce a boy durst turn his eye,
So horrified, so overjoy'd,
To hear the ghost or goblin tread,
Or see some phantom of the dead.
In after life, when manhood came,
Believe me, Sir, 'twas just the same;—
And even now, as ardent youth,
I'd tell a story with some truth,
Would make you shudder and conceal,
The deep emotion you would feel.
But shall I venture on the song,
O no, I fear 'twould be too long;
Besides, I cannot, Sir, compose
So well in numbers as in prose.—
Believe me, Sir, 'twas just the same;—
And even now, as ardent youth,
I'd tell a story with some truth,
Would make you shudder and conceal,
The deep emotion you would feel.
But shall I venture on the song,
O no, I fear 'twould be too long;
Besides, I cannot, Sir, compose
So well in numbers as in prose.—
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'Twas just the hour when owlets scream,
When faithless husbands roam abroad;
When cats are mewing, and the stream
Of fashionables tread the road,
To revel at the evening rout,
Or through the street to sculk about:—
'Twas just the hour, but where the man,
To see such things, such scene to scan;
No matter where, not far from hence,
I write, Sir, in that man's defence.
When faithless husbands roam abroad;
When cats are mewing, and the stream
Of fashionables tread the road,
To revel at the evening rout,
Or through the street to sculk about:—
'Twas just the hour, but where the man,
To see such things, such scene to scan;
No matter where, not far from hence,
I write, Sir, in that man's defence.
A wandering stranger all alone,
Was walking by the light of moon;
As down he sat upon the ground,
To contemplate the scene around,
He saw advancing by the light,
A figure drest in robe of white;—
A female form. As nearer now,
She past beneath the hanging bough,
He saw her weep, and heard her sigh,
And wring her hands so mournfully,
Her spirit seem'd to die within her;
And thus began the plantive sinner:—
“O had I led an upright life,
“I might have been a happy wife;
“For one who lov'd me, loves me still,
“Yet make me his, he never will,
Was walking by the light of moon;
As down he sat upon the ground,
To contemplate the scene around,
He saw advancing by the light,
A figure drest in robe of white;—
A female form. As nearer now,
She past beneath the hanging bough,
He saw her weep, and heard her sigh,
And wring her hands so mournfully,
Her spirit seem'd to die within her;
And thus began the plantive sinner:—
“O had I led an upright life,
“I might have been a happy wife;
“For one who lov'd me, loves me still,
“Yet make me his, he never will,
133
“Nor can I hope it. Ah, poor me!
“Mine is a life of misery!”
No more, no more; her scarf was flung
Across the bough, and there she hung;
The stranger, be it briefly known,
Sans ceremonie, cut her down,
And soon convinc'd her, One above
Compassion had in purest Love.
A happy woman, if not wife,
She lives in hope of better life.
And now, Sir, whether whig or tory,
Here the Poet ends his story.—
“Mine is a life of misery!”
No more, no more; her scarf was flung
Across the bough, and there she hung;
The stranger, be it briefly known,
Sans ceremonie, cut her down,
And soon convinc'd her, One above
Compassion had in purest Love.
A happy woman, if not wife,
She lives in hope of better life.
And now, Sir, whether whig or tory,
Here the Poet ends his story.—
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