The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth

The muse and myself, the other day,
Held a short colloquy together;
For she sometimes calls, when she comes that way,
Though scarcely a moment she deigns to stay,
And seldom has anything to say,
Save, “how d' ye do—what news to-day!
'T is really charming weather.”

She found me alone, in my elbow chair—
One arm has long been broken—
In the attic, George—you well know where,
For once, last summer, I saw you there,
When you kindly offered to pay my fare,

238

If I'd brush my coat, and with you repair
To breathe a mouthful of country air,
On the heights of green Hoboken.

As I said before, her ladyship came,
En dishabille, as usual,
In costume resembling the slipshod dame
Whose Black-book sketches are known to fame.
Her robe was blue, and her hose the same,
Her sandals unlaced, and her gait was lame,
As she entered the room, and pronounced my name
In a manner and tone fiducial.

“Good day t' ye, Reuben—do n't ask me to stay,
For I must hasten home to my toilet;
As I go out with Norna a-shopping to-day,
And Hinda goes with us—besides, I must pay
A visit to Thirza—it 's all in our way,
And then to Ianthe I 've something to say;
Besides, I must call upon Wetmore and Fay,
And then there would be the Old Nick to pay,
If I did n't look in upon Morris too—eigh!
But now, while I think of it—Reuben, do say,
Who is that comical Cox?—I will lay
He is building a fame that will never decay;
And so is my favorite Proteus—nay,
No jealousy, Reuben, but win your own bay,
And never let envy soil it.

239

“Hush! do n't interrupt me—there 's tender Estelle,
Everard, Lara, and Alpha, and Inman,
Isidora, or Harriet—with sweet Isabelle,
And hundreds of others, are like to excel,
If they treat me politely. But, Reuben, do tell,
If I don't appear charming in this dishabille?
Say, why the deuce do you grin, man?”

“You look,” I replied, “both ugly and old,
In these rascally dishabille dresses;
Why, when you are visiting others, I'm told,
The finest light gossamer vestures infold
That form and those limbs of such exquite mould,
With sandals that sparkle with spangles and gold,
While a chaplet of roses and diamonds untold,
Confine those wandering tresses.

“When others petition, you make reply,
In numbers of sweetest measure,
But to me you prate, like a chattering pie,
Of shopping, and visits, and a few small fry
Of Mirror contributors—while here, poor I
In silence must wait your leisure!

“Why not on me such favors bestow
As your other votaries win?

240

Why prattle to me on subjects so low,
In a tuneless, senseless din?”
“Why, then, you must know,”
She said with a smile,
“That, when here below,
I adapt my style
To the company I am in.

“But, jesting apart, what is it you claim?
I'll grant you the boon, I swear it:
That is, if I'm able—come, give it a name.”
“Then fire me, at once,” I replied, “with the flame
That animates Halleck, and lights him to fame;
To a like dazzling summit direct my aim,
Procure for my numbers an equal acclaim;
Secure me a chaplet as bright—not the same,
And teach me as humbly to wear it.”

She smiling replied, while her head she shook—
“In vain should I bid you take it;
For Apollo, when late, with a shepherd's crook,
He toyed with a maid, by a gurgling brook,
Had concealed his lyre in a private nook,
Which Halleck observed, and slyly took,
And none but Halleck can wake it.”

This and the two following poems were, by the author, “addressed to my friend, George P. Morris, Esq.”

University of Virginia Library

A COLLOQUY WITH THE MUSE.