 | London lyrics |  |
47
GERALDINE
A simple Child has claims
On your sentiment, her name's
Geraldine.
Be tender, but beware,—
She's frolicsome as fair,
And fifteen.
On your sentiment, her name's
Geraldine.
Be tender, but beware,—
She's frolicsome as fair,
And fifteen.
She has gifts to grace allied,
And each she has applied,
And improved:
She has bliss that lives and leans
On loving, and that means
She is loved.
And each she has applied,
And improved:
She has bliss that lives and leans
On loving, and that means
She is loved.
Her beauty is refined
By harmony of mind,
And the art,
And the blessed nature, too,
Of a tender, and a true
Little heart.
By harmony of mind,
And the art,
And the blessed nature, too,
Of a tender, and a true
Little heart.
48
And yet I mustn't vault
Over any foolish fault
That she owns,
Or others might rebel
And enviously swell
In their zones.
Over any foolish fault
That she owns,
Or others might rebel
And enviously swell
In their zones.
For she's tricksy as the fays,
Or her pussy when it plays
With a string:
She's a goose about her cat,
Her ribbons, and all that
Sort of thing.
Or her pussy when it plays
With a string:
She's a goose about her cat,
Her ribbons, and all that
Sort of thing.
These foibles are a blot,
Still she never can do what
Isn't nice;
Such as quarrel, and give slaps—
As I've known her get perhaps
Once or twice.
Still she never can do what
Isn't nice;
Such as quarrel, and give slaps—
As I've known her get perhaps
Once or twice.
The spells that draw her soul
Are subtle—sad or droll:
She can show
That virtuoso whim
Which consecrates our dim
Long-ago.
Are subtle—sad or droll:
She can show
That virtuoso whim
Which consecrates our dim
Long-ago.
49
A love that is not sham
For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb;
And I've known
Cordelia's sad eyes
Cause angel-tears to rise
In her own.
For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb;
And I've known
Cordelia's sad eyes
Cause angel-tears to rise
In her own.
Her gentle spirit yearns
When she reads of Robin Burns:
Luckless bard!
Had she blossom'd in thy time,
Oh, how rare had been the rhyme
—And reward!
When she reads of Robin Burns:
Luckless bard!
Had she blossom'd in thy time,
Oh, how rare had been the rhyme
—And reward!
Thrice happy then is he
Who, planting such a Tree,
Sees it bloom
To shelter him; indeed
We have joyance as we speed
To our doom!
Who, planting such a Tree,
Sees it bloom
To shelter him; indeed
We have joyance as we speed
To our doom!
I'm happy, having grown
Such a Sapling of my own;
And I crave
No garland for my brows,
But rest beneath its boughs
To the grave.
Such a Sapling of my own;
And I crave
No garland for my brows,
But rest beneath its boughs
To the grave.
1864.
| London lyrics | |