The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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THE REJECTED STOCKHOLDER
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
THE REJECTED STOCKHOLDER
A LOCAL MONOLOGUE
I thought that I had won her heart,
Before assessments came
To chill the fever of her blood
And check her youthful flame;
But ah! 't was not for me, but mine,
She spread her female snares—
I asked for one to share my love,
And not to love my shares!
Before assessments came
To chill the fever of her blood
And check her youthful flame;
But ah! 't was not for me, but mine,
She spread her female snares—
I asked for one to share my love,
And not to love my shares!
I wooed her when the young May moon
And tranquil patient stars
Their lustre spread, and all the earth
Seemed strewn with silver bars;
Her praise I whispered to the sky,
The free winds spoke her fame,
And one location—all in vain—
I took—in her sweet name!
And tranquil patient stars
Their lustre spread, and all the earth
Seemed strewn with silver bars;
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The free winds spoke her fame,
And one location—all in vain—
I took—in her sweet name!
But now another's offering lies
Before that fickle shrine;
Another claims her hand—his claim
Is worth much more than mine;
But though he offers all I lack
To make her joy complete—
I would not stand in that man's shoes
Unless I had his feet!
Before that fickle shrine;
Another claims her hand—his claim
Is worth much more than mine;
But though he offers all I lack
To make her joy complete—
I would not stand in that man's shoes
Unless I had his feet!
O, tell me not of golden legs
That Kilmanseggs have known;
They 're nothing to the silver feet
My fickle fair would own.
The dream is past; but in these fond
Certificates I view—
Observe, ye credulous, what faith
And printers' ink may do.
That Kilmanseggs have known;
They 're nothing to the silver feet
My fickle fair would own.
The dream is past; but in these fond
Certificates I view—
Observe, ye credulous, what faith
And printers' ink may do.
My loving verses she returns
Though once she thought them fine—
She 's grown so critical in feet
She scans each faulty line.
And yet my fate I meekly bear
And find relief in sighs;
For oh, no Savage rules this breast,
Nor Chollar that may rise!
Though once she thought them fine—
She 's grown so critical in feet
She scans each faulty line.
And yet my fate I meekly bear
And find relief in sighs;
For oh, no Savage rules this breast,
Nor Chollar that may rise!
Oh, youth, who seekest Fortune's smile,
Shun, if thou canst, alway,
The woman's wile, the broker's guile,
That gild but to betray.
So use this world that in the next,
When here thy days shall end,
Thy last six feet of earth shall yield
To thee a dividend!
Shun, if thou canst, alway,
309
That gild but to betray.
So use this world that in the next,
When here thy days shall end,
Thy last six feet of earth shall yield
To thee a dividend!
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |