 | Collected poems |  |
390
AD ROSAM
“Mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
Sera moretur.”
—Hor. 1. 38.
Sera moretur.”
—Hor. 1. 38.
I had a vacant dwelling—
Where situated, I,
As naught can serve the telling,
Decline to specify;—
Enough 'twas neither haunted,
Entailed, nor out of date;
I put up “Tenant Wanted,”
And left the rest to Fate.
Where situated, I,
As naught can serve the telling,
Decline to specify;—
Enough 'twas neither haunted,
Entailed, nor out of date;
I put up “Tenant Wanted,”
And left the rest to Fate.
Then, Rose, you passed the window,—
I see you passing yet,—
Ah, what could I within do,
When, Rose, our glances met!
You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall,
Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my “Decline and Fall.”
I see you passing yet,—
Ah, what could I within do,
When, Rose, our glances met!
You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall,
Brief—briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my “Decline and Fall.”
I heard the summons spoken
That all hear—king and clown:
You smiled—the ice was broken;
You stopped—the bill was down.
How blind we are! It never
Occurred to me to seek
If you had come for ever,
Or only for a week.
That all hear—king and clown:
You smiled—the ice was broken;
You stopped—the bill was down.
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Occurred to me to seek
If you had come for ever,
Or only for a week.
The words your voice neglected,
Seemed written in your eyes;
The thought your heart protected,
Your cheek told, missal-wise;—
I read the rubric plainly
As any Expert could;
In short, we dreamed,—insanely,
As only lovers should.
Seemed written in your eyes;
The thought your heart protected,
Your cheek told, missal-wise;—
I read the rubric plainly
As any Expert could;
In short, we dreamed,—insanely,
As only lovers should.
I broke the tall Œnone,
That then my chambers graced,
Because she seemed “too bony,”
To suit your purist taste;
And you, without vexation,
May certainly confess
Some graceful approbation,
Designed à mon adresse.
That then my chambers graced,
Because she seemed “too bony,”
To suit your purist taste;
And you, without vexation,
May certainly confess
Some graceful approbation,
Designed à mon adresse.
You liked me then, carina,—
You liked me then, I think;
For your sake gall had been a
Mere tonic-cup to drink;
For your sake, bonds were trivial,
The rack, a tour-de-force;
And banishment, convivial,—
You coming too, of course.
You liked me then, I think;
For your sake gall had been a
Mere tonic-cup to drink;
For your sake, bonds were trivial,
The rack, a tour-de-force;
And banishment, convivial,—
You coming too, of course.
392
Then, Rose, a word in jest meant
Would throw you in a state
That no well-timed investment
Could quite alleviate;
Beyond a Paris trousseau
You prized my smile, I know;
I, yours—ah, more than Rousseau
The lip of d'Houdetot.
Would throw you in a state
That no well-timed investment
Could quite alleviate;
Beyond a Paris trousseau
You prized my smile, I know;
I, yours—ah, more than Rousseau
The lip of d'Houdetot.
Then, Rose,—But why pursue it?
When Fate begins to frown
Best write the final “fuit,”
And gulp the physic down.
And yet,—and yet, that only,
The song should end with this:—
You left me,—left me lonely,
Rosa mutabilis!
When Fate begins to frown
Best write the final “fuit,”
And gulp the physic down.
And yet,—and yet, that only,
The song should end with this:—
You left me,—left me lonely,
Rosa mutabilis!
Left me, with Time for Mentor,
(A dreary tête-à-tête!)
To pen my “Last Lament,” or
Extemporize to Fate,
In blankest verse disclosing
My bitterness of mind,—
Which is, I learn, composing
In cases of the kind.
(A dreary tête-à-tête!)
To pen my “Last Lament,” or
Extemporize to Fate,
In blankest verse disclosing
My bitterness of mind,—
Which is, I learn, composing
In cases of the kind.
No, Rose. Though you refuse me,
Culture the pang prevents;
“I am not made”—excuse me—
“Of so slight elements;”
I leave to common lovers
The hemlock or the hood;
My rarer soul recovers
In dreams of public good.
Culture the pang prevents;
“I am not made”—excuse me—
“Of so slight elements;”
393
The hemlock or the hood;
My rarer soul recovers
In dreams of public good.
The Roses of this nation—
Or so I understand
From careful computation—
Exceed the gross demand;
And, therefore, in civility
To maids that can't be matched,
No man of sensibility
Should linger unattached.
Or so I understand
From careful computation—
Exceed the gross demand;
And, therefore, in civility
To maids that can't be matched,
No man of sensibility
Should linger unattached.
So, without further fashion—
A modern Curtius,
Plunging, from pure compassion,
To aid the overplus,—
I sit down, sad—not daunted,
And, in my weeds, begin
A new card—“Tenant Wanted,
Particulars within.”
A modern Curtius,
Plunging, from pure compassion,
To aid the overplus,—
I sit down, sad—not daunted,
And, in my weeds, begin
A new card—“Tenant Wanted,
Particulars within.”
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