 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
TO MY COUSIN
No, Cousin, no,—each gentle word,
Of thine is unforgotten yet,
That sweet low voice in boyhood heard,
E'en manhood's pride may not forget.
I do not tell thee this to flatter
Thy vain young heart with words of passion,
For love has grown a playful matter,
And sentiment is out of fashion.
The world has given a different tone
To feelings which it cannot bridle;
And manhood would disdain to own
The worship of its earthly idol.
Of thine is unforgotten yet,
That sweet low voice in boyhood heard,
E'en manhood's pride may not forget.
I do not tell thee this to flatter
Thy vain young heart with words of passion,
For love has grown a playful matter,
And sentiment is out of fashion.
The world has given a different tone
To feelings which it cannot bridle;
And manhood would disdain to own
The worship of its earthly idol.
206
Nay, Cousin,—it is idle now,
To linger on the past, or cherish,
A thought of that unmeaning vow
Whose very nature was to perish.
For many months we have not met—
And yet they say thy mood is cheerful,
They say thy cheek is rosy yet
And that thine eye is seldom tearful,
That in the gay and crowded hall
The mazes of thy dance are highest—
Thy voice the freest one of all,
The glances of thine eye the brightest,
That broken-hearted lovers yet
Are thronging round thee by the dozen—
That thou art still a gay coquette—
And it is so, my gentle cousin!
To linger on the past, or cherish,
A thought of that unmeaning vow
Whose very nature was to perish.
For many months we have not met—
And yet they say thy mood is cheerful,
They say thy cheek is rosy yet
And that thine eye is seldom tearful,
That in the gay and crowded hall
The mazes of thy dance are highest—
Thy voice the freest one of all,
The glances of thine eye the brightest,
That broken-hearted lovers yet
Are thronging round thee by the dozen—
That thou art still a gay coquette—
And it is so, my gentle cousin!
I hope it is—for thou art one
Unfitted for a weary trial,
A thing to perish when the sun
Is shrouded from thy spirit's dial!
Yet what of this, thou art not sighing
Of slighted love to flower and tree,
And little dost thou think of dying
For such a worthless thing as me.
Yet, Cousin, those were pleasant times,
When we were in the moonlight straying
With hearts as idle as the rhymes
With which my careless pen is playing.
'Twas pleasant to behold thee lift
Thy dark eyes to the blue sky o'er us,
With brow as fair as mountain drift,
When polished by the wing of Boreas.
Unfitted for a weary trial,
A thing to perish when the sun
Is shrouded from thy spirit's dial!
Yet what of this, thou art not sighing
Of slighted love to flower and tree,
And little dost thou think of dying
For such a worthless thing as me.
Yet, Cousin, those were pleasant times,
When we were in the moonlight straying
With hearts as idle as the rhymes
With which my careless pen is playing.
'Twas pleasant to behold thee lift
Thy dark eyes to the blue sky o'er us,
With brow as fair as mountain drift,
When polished by the wing of Boreas.
Cousin—these days have vanished now,
And love's mild glance would ill befit
The darker lip and haughtier brow
With anguish and ambition writ.
I blame thee not that thou hast lent
The blessing of thy love to others,
Although my own was never meant
To be but as a friend's or brother's.
But time hath worked a change—perhaps,
The better for a heart like mine,
And though it may at times relapse,
And worship at its older shrine,
Yet, Coz, it were an idle thing
Of other days and loves to speak;
And idle were thy hopes to bring
A tear on manhood's bearded cheek.
And love's mild glance would ill befit
The darker lip and haughtier brow
With anguish and ambition writ.
I blame thee not that thou hast lent
The blessing of thy love to others,
Although my own was never meant
To be but as a friend's or brother's.
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The better for a heart like mine,
And though it may at times relapse,
And worship at its older shrine,
Yet, Coz, it were an idle thing
Of other days and loves to speak;
And idle were thy hopes to bring
A tear on manhood's bearded cheek.
Farewell, sweet cousin!—thou are young,
And wealth, and mirth, and love surround thee;
And I—a wreck of being—flung
Upon a sea that darkened round me.
Forget—forgive the dreamy part
Which thou and I have acted o'er;
Go—kindle in another heart
The flame that burns in mine no more.
When married—for acquaintance sake—
Good Cousin, I am sure you'll do it—
Just send a piece of bridal cake
And I—will write a sonnet to it.
And wealth, and mirth, and love surround thee;
And I—a wreck of being—flung
Upon a sea that darkened round me.
Forget—forgive the dreamy part
Which thou and I have acted o'er;
Go—kindle in another heart
The flame that burns in mine no more.
When married—for acquaintance sake—
Good Cousin, I am sure you'll do it—
Just send a piece of bridal cake
And I—will write a sonnet to it.
New England Weekly Review August 17, 1829
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |