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A BABYLONISH DITTY.
A BABYLONISH DITTY.
More than several years have faded, since my heart was first invaded,
By a brown-skinned, gray-eyed siren, on the merry old “South
Side;”
Where the mill-flume cataracts glisten, and the agile blue-fish listen
To the fleet of phantom schooners floating on the weedy tide.
By a brown-skinned, gray-eyed siren, on the merry old “South
Side;”
Where the mill-flume cataracts glisten, and the agile blue-fish listen
To the fleet of phantom schooners floating on the weedy tide.
134
'Tis the land of rum and romance, for the old South Bay is no man's,
But belongs (as all such places should belong) to Uncle Sam;
There you'll see the amorous plover, and the woodcock in the cover,
And the silky trout all over, underneath the water-dam.
There amid the sandy reaches, in among the pines and beeches,
Oaks, and various other kinds of old primeval forest trees,
Did we wander in the noonlight, or beneath the silver moonlight,
While in ledges sighed the sedges to the salt salubrious breeze.
Oh! I loved her as a sister—often, often times I kissed her,
Holding prest against my vest her slender, soft, seductive hand;
Often by my midnight taper, filled at least a quire of paper
With some graphic ode, or sapphic, “To the nymph of Babyland.”
Oft we saw the dim blue highlands, Coney, Oak, and other islands,
(Moles that dot the dimpled bosom of the sunny summer sea,)
Or 'mid polished leaves of lotus, whereso 'er our skiff would float us,
Anywhere, where none could notice, there we sought alone to be.
Thus till summer was senescent, and the woods were iridescent,
Dolphin tints, and hectic-hints of what was shortly coming on,
Did I worship Amy Milton, fragile was the faith I built on,
Then we parted; broken-hearted, I, when she left Babylon.
As upon the moveless water lies the motionless frigata,
Flings her spars and spidery outlines lightly on the lucid plain,
But whene'er the fresh breeze bloweth, to more distant oceans goeth,
Never more the old haunt knoweth, never more returns again—
But belongs (as all such places should belong) to Uncle Sam;
There you'll see the amorous plover, and the woodcock in the cover,
And the silky trout all over, underneath the water-dam.
There amid the sandy reaches, in among the pines and beeches,
Oaks, and various other kinds of old primeval forest trees,
Did we wander in the noonlight, or beneath the silver moonlight,
While in ledges sighed the sedges to the salt salubrious breeze.
Oh! I loved her as a sister—often, often times I kissed her,
Holding prest against my vest her slender, soft, seductive hand;
Often by my midnight taper, filled at least a quire of paper
With some graphic ode, or sapphic, “To the nymph of Babyland.”
Oft we saw the dim blue highlands, Coney, Oak, and other islands,
(Moles that dot the dimpled bosom of the sunny summer sea,)
Or 'mid polished leaves of lotus, whereso 'er our skiff would float us,
Anywhere, where none could notice, there we sought alone to be.
Thus till summer was senescent, and the woods were iridescent,
Dolphin tints, and hectic-hints of what was shortly coming on,
Did I worship Amy Milton, fragile was the faith I built on,
Then we parted; broken-hearted, I, when she left Babylon.
As upon the moveless water lies the motionless frigata,
Flings her spars and spidery outlines lightly on the lucid plain,
But whene'er the fresh breeze bloweth, to more distant oceans goeth,
Never more the old haunt knoweth, never more returns again—
135
So is woman evanescent; shifting with the shifting present;
Changing like the changing tide, and faithless as the fickle sea;
Lighter than the wind-blown thistle; falser than the fowler's whistle
Was that coaxing piece of hoaxing—Amy Milton's love to me:
Yes, thou transitory bubble! floating on this sea of trouble,
Though the sky be bright above thee, soon will sunny days be gone;
Then when thou'rt by all forsaken, will thy bankrupt heart awaken
To those golden days of olden times in happy Babylon!
Changing like the changing tide, and faithless as the fickle sea;
Lighter than the wind-blown thistle; falser than the fowler's whistle
Was that coaxing piece of hoaxing—Amy Milton's love to me:
Yes, thou transitory bubble! floating on this sea of trouble,
Though the sky be bright above thee, soon will sunny days be gone;
Then when thou'rt by all forsaken, will thy bankrupt heart awaken
To those golden days of olden times in happy Babylon!
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