Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! sweet Anne, 'tis alas! my first woe,
One, I fear, I shall never recover,
While I'm yet doomed to wander below,
I have lost—I have lost my false lover.

He swore to be true—still he swore,
I believed him, and then did we sever;
Can I ever know happiness more?
Thought of anguish!—Oh! never, no never!

You see that my cheek is grown pale,
Oh! my dear happy friend, can you wonder—
I must tell you my dark mournful tale,
When, when will life's thread snap in sunder?

What words, Ah! what words can e'er paint
My wild love, and my still wilder sorrow?
Wilt thou list to my bitter complaint?
But what words, Oh! what words can I borrow?

In such accents of music he spake,
Such fires in his dark eyes were beaming,
Sure I scarcely can be quite awake,
E'en now I could think I was dreaming!

Hope, false hope, thou art deceitful and vain,
A shadow, a reed, and a bubble—
Memory, fly from my agonized brain,
Every pang doth your presence redouble.

Oh! Anne, may'st thou never be taught
The sufferings thy poor friend's enduring,
To which all other sufferings are naught,
These—these there's no calming nor curing.

Why was he so matchless? I ask—
Or why, why had I eyes to behold him?
To forget is a stern fearful task,
My heart's shrine will for ever enfold him.

I loved him, too wildly and well,
And to love me, the Inconstant pretended—
My soul's misery no language can tell,
Every hope, every feeling is ended.

Oh! surely man's made up of guile!
To think he, I so loved and so trusted,
Should have proved so perfidious and vile—
With the World and its joys I'm disgusted.

Three weeks I had known him, and more,
All this time he seemed true and devoted;
But the sweet halcyon vision is o'er,
Oh! how fondly on him have I doated.

All constant and changeless he was,
For those three happy weeks, bright and sunny;
But he now loves Miss Belmont—alas!
Or rather, he doats on her money!

But the sunflower must turn from the Sun,
From the Pole-star the needle must sever,
Ere I from mine Idol am won,
Tho' he spurns and deserts me for ever.

I must love, and love on to the end,
Since for me there's no change nor forgetting;
Don't you think, pray my dear pitying friend,
I am grown very thin with this fretting?

I rejoice these poor lungs are not strong,
I care not—it can matter but little,
My life's bowl will be broken ere long,
'Tis well life's poisoned bowl is so brittle!

I feel every string of my heart,
Like mine untuned harp's strings, now are breaking,
Well I know that I soon must depart,
'Tis a solemn farewell we're now taking.

But despair can scarce fear coming Death,
Oh! regret not thy friend's dissolution,
The sharp sword must still wear thro' the sheath,
Grief, like mine, saps the best constitution!

O'er thy friend's early grave thou wilt bend,
And remember her calm resignation;
But I charge thee weep not for thy friend—
Let him weep who thus wrought desolation.

How, thou hard hearted Sun! canst thou shine
O'er a Being in hopelessness sighing?
One small comfort, Oh! Anne! is still mine,—
Yes, I feel it—I know I am dying!

Why!—who is it is coming this way?
Sure 'tis young Major Monck of the Lancers,
Come to give us a call, I dare say—
Do you know he's the finest of dancers!

Oh! and Colonel de Vere of the Guards,
Who they say is so handsome and clever,
Will they call, or but leave us their cards?
I could look at that Man's face for ever.

I'm so glad that my room is in front,
'Tis so charming to see who is coming;
None like him can shoot, drive, fish, and hunt—
That's the last Opera air that he's humming.

He has got the best bouquet du Roi—
'Tis not only his figure and beauty,
But there's such a sweet je ne sais quoi;
I first saw him last Monday on duty.

Look out, Anne!—are they come to the door?
Pray, now mind that they don't see you peeping—
Oh! my eyes are quite red—what a bore!
With this stupid, nonsensical weeping.

What could I have cried for, my dear?
What was it about I was weeping?
Oh! I recollect now!—are they near?
Why, how slow they are crawling and creeping!

They have stopped here then?—well! I declare!
How provoking, yet, Oh! how delightful!
All these papillottes stuck in my hair!—
Help me, Anne!—and say, do I look frightful?

Let's be quick, dearest Love! only think,
To-day, in my foolish dejection,
I put on this vile gown of pale pink,
And pink never becomes my complexion.

Shall I have time to change it? no, no—
If we loiter, perhaps they'll be going—
Oh! but give me that pretty black bow,
In my hair, stuck just so, 'twill look knowing!

I must look rather mournful and low,
I do wish I'd a little less colour,
'Tis too much of a flush and a glow,
What would I not give it were duller!

All the World, I don't doubt, know my case,
How ill used I have been and forsaken—
Don't you think on each side of my face
My long locks should more loosely be shaken.

I wish I was not dressed in pink,
Oh! my folly I'm sorely repenting,
With vexation I feel I could sink!
But come, now! 'tis of no use lamenting.

Come now, Anne! how you dawdle, make haste,
George de Vere you'll adore, I assure you—
Take that hideous green belt from your waist,
Or, I'm sure, he'll detest and abjure you!

He is Heir to twelve thousand a-year,
And he plays the guitar they say finely—
He is sure to be made soon a peer,
And can dance the Mazurka divinely!

He has such a nice house—near the Park,
And will have a fine mansion in Devon,
And you ne'er yet saw whiskers so dark,
And he is but just turned twenty-seven.

Are you ready?—then let us go down—
How do I look now;—speak sincerely;
He's the handsomest creature in town—
Oh! I feel I could love him so dearly.

When I saw him on Monday, at once
Stood my destiny's star still before him!
If my love in his soul wakes response,
Oh! Anne! how my heart will adore him!