The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey :: :: University of Virginia Library

I love thee well, my dainty flower!
My wee, white cowering thing,
That shrinketh like a cottage maid,
Of bold, uncivil eyes afraid,
Within thy leafy ring!

I love thee well, my dainty dear!
Not only that thou'rt fair—
Not only for thy downcast eye,
Nor thy sweet breath, so lovingly
That woos the caller air—

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But that a world of dreamy thoughts
The sight of thee doth bring;
Like birds who've wandered far from hence,
And come again, we know not whence,
At the first call of spring.

As here I stand and look on thee,
Before mine eyes doth pass—
Clearing and quickening as I gaze—
An evening scene of other days,
As in a magic glass.

I see a small old-fashioned room,
With pannelled wainscot high—
Old portraits, round in order set,
Carved heavy tables, chairs, buffet
Of dark mahogany;

Twin china jars, on brackets high,
With grinning Monsters crowned;
And one that, like a Phœnix' nest,
Exhales all Araby the Blest,
From that old bookcase round.

And there a high-backed, hard settee,
On six brown legs and paws,
Flowered o'er with silk embroidery,
And there, all rough with filigree,
Tall screens on gilded claws.

Down drops the damask curtain there
In many a lustrous fold;
The fire-light flashing broad and high,
Floods its pale amber gorgeously
With waves of redder gold.

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And lo! the flamy brightness wakes
Those pictured shapes to life—
My Lady's lip grows moist and warm,
And dark Sir Edward's mailèd form
Starts out for mortal strife;

And living, breathing forms are round—
Some gently touched by Time,
Staid Elders, clustering by the hearth,
And one, the soul of youthful mirth,
Outlasting youthful prime.

And there—where she presides so well,
With fair dispensing hands—
Where tapers shine, and porcelain gleams,
And muffins smoke, and tea-urn steams,
The Pembroke Table stands—

That heir-loom Tea-pot—Graphic Muse!
Describe it if thou'rt able—
Methinks—were such advances meet—
On those three, tiny, toddling feet,
'Twould swim across the table

And curtsy to the coffee-pot—
Coquettishly demure,—
Tall, quaint compeer!—fit partner he
To lead with her so gracefully
Le minuét de la cour!

Ah, precious Monsters! dear Antiques!
More beautiful to me,
Than modern, fine, affected things,
With classic claws, and beaks, and wings—
“God save the mark!”—can be.

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How grateful tastes the infusèd herb!
How pleasant its perfume!
Some sit and sip;—with cup in hand
This saunters round;—while others stand
In knots about the room—

In cozy knots—there, three and four—
And here, one, two, and three—
Here by my little dainty flower—
Oh fragrant thing! Oh pleasant hour!
Oh gentle company!

Come, Idler, set that cup aside,
And tune the flute for me—
What will I have? Oh, prithee, play
That air I love—“Te bien aimer
Pour toujours ma Zelie.”

Sweet air!—sweet flower!—sweet social looks!—
Dear friends!—young, happy hearts!
How now!—What! all alone am I?
Come they with cruel mockery
Like shadows to depart?

Ay, shadows all—gone every face
I loved to look upon—
Hushed every strain I loved to hear,
Or sounding in a distant ear—
“All gone!—all gone!—all gone!”

Some far away in other lands—
In this, some worse than dead—
Some in their graves laid quietly—
One, slumbering in the deep, deep sea—
All gone!—all lost!—all fled!

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And here am I—I live and breathe,
And stand, as then I stood,
Beside my little dainty flower—
But now, in what an altered hour!
In what an altered mood!

And yet I love to linger here—
To inhale this odorous breath,
Faint as a whisper from the tomb—
To gaze upon this pallid bloom
As on the face of Death.