 | Poems by the late William Caldwell Roscoe |  |
MINOR POEMS
[Young Mabel in her early days]
Young Mabel in her early days,
Professed so hard a heart,
As Cupid ne'er the skin could rase
With all his reach of art.
Professed so hard a heart,
As Cupid ne'er the skin could rase
With all his reach of art.
But when the spiteful god at last
Had found a dart that pleased her,
He showered his arrowy rain too fast
And never more released her.
Had found a dart that pleased her,
He showered his arrowy rain too fast
And never more released her.
Till riddled by the frequent wound,
Her heart grew like a sieve,
And not a sound spot could be found
Wherein the barbs would live.
Her heart grew like a sieve,
And not a sound spot could be found
Wherein the barbs would live.
Fresh liking still within her grew,
Fresh loves were overhasted;
And while the arrows whistled through,
Was all the time they lasted.
Fresh loves were overhasted;
And while the arrows whistled through,
Was all the time they lasted.
And now the candid fair avows
That she must still be ranging,
“She loved you once” (and sighs) “she knows,
But she was born for changing.”
That she must still be ranging,
“She loved you once” (and sighs) “she knows,
But she was born for changing.”
1845.
TO LA SANSCŒUR
I know not how to call you light,
Since I myself was lighter;
Nor can you blame my changing plight
Who were the first inviter.
Since I myself was lighter;
Nor can you blame my changing plight
Who were the first inviter.
I know not which began to range,
Since we were never constant;
And each when each began to change
Was found a weak remonstrant.
Since we were never constant;
And each when each began to change
Was found a weak remonstrant.
But this I know, the God of Love
Doth shake his hand against us,
And scorning says we ne'er did prove,
True passion—but pretences.
Doth shake his hand against us,
And scorning says we ne'er did prove,
True passion—but pretences.
1845.
SONG
[What care I though beauty fading]
What care I though beauty fading,
Die ere Time can turn his glass,
What though locks the Graces braiding,
Perish like the summer grass?
Though thy charms should all decay,
Think not my affections may.
Die ere Time can turn his glass,
What though locks the Graces braiding,
Perish like the summer grass?
Though thy charms should all decay,
Think not my affections may.
For thy charms though bright as morning,
Captured not my idle heart,
Love so grounded ends in scorning,
Lacks the barb to hold the dart.
My devotion more secure
Woos thy spirit high and pure.
Captured not my idle heart,
Love so grounded ends in scorning,
Lacks the barb to hold the dart.
My devotion more secure
Woos thy spirit high and pure.
1843.
34
SONG
[Here's to the lady that I love]
Here's to the lady that I love,
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
Let those that affect but a passion
Reveal the dear name in their heart,
But we, that are lovers in earnest,
Will pledge it, and keep it apart.
Reveal the dear name in their heart,
But we, that are lovers in earnest,
Will pledge it, and keep it apart.
Here's to the lady that I love,
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
What need we the voice of another?
To us at the least she is fair,
And this we all know that we love her,
And live in celestial air.
To us at the least she is fair,
And this we all know that we love her,
And live in celestial air.
35
Here's to the lady that I love,
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
Fill high till the bright wine runs over,
Spare nothing of honour and zeal,
But true love hath a taste of Religion,
And when we adore we conceal.
Spare nothing of honour and zeal,
But true love hath a taste of Religion,
And when we adore we conceal.
Here's to the lady that I love,
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
And here's to the lady that you do,
And let all the table round
Chink and drink as we two do.
| Poems by the late William Caldwell Roscoe | |