Hast thou papa?
Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl?
And what doth he for lucre? Lo again!
A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream!
For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love
Can make thee, and the ministering hands
Of milliners, incapable of more,
Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air,
And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly,
May rise a wall of adamant. My breath
Upon my pale lip freezes as I name
Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west
In its far down extremity. Thy sire
May be the signer of a temperance pledge,
And clad all decently may walk the earth--
Nay-may be number'd with that blessed few
Who never ask for discount-yet, alas!
If, homeward wending from his daily cares,
He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending-Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown—
My vision is departed! Harshly falls
The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!"
And pitiless is woman who doth keep
Of "good society" the golden key!
And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars,
To stoop not after rising!
And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell
The passengers by Broadway Lines alone !
And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed,
Art only not more lovely than genteel-
Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette,
The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to the
Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain--
And, with up-town devotedness and truth,
My love shall hover round thee!
N. P. WILLIS. Argument.--The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.
COME out, love-the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting-
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
"Tis seldom that "coolness" entices,
And love is no better for chilling—
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us—
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)
O Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilacs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all !
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm—
When-pest!—that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnibus by!
(Though sweet is I scream* when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high)—
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I!
* Query-Should this be Ice cream, or I scream ?-Printer's Devil.
I PASS'D her one day in a hurry,
When late for the Post with a letter
I think near the corner of Murray-
And up rose my heart as I met her!
I ne'er saw a parasol handled
So like to a duchess's doing--
I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd,
Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing—
Lovely thing!
Surprising !-one woman can dish us
So many rare sweets up together!
Tournure absolutely delicious—
Chip hat without flower or feather-
Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced,
Her waist like the cup of a lily—
And an air, that, while daintily modest,
Repell'd both the saucy and silly—
Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir,
There's reason in tearing one's tether-
And, to see her again in Broadway, sir,
Who would not be lavish of leather!
I met her again, and as you know
I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney—
But I said a bad word-for my Juno
Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney-
Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd-
My castles like mockery fall, sir!
And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd
Seem varnish and crockery all, sir!
The bright cup which angels might handle
Turns earthy when finger'd by asses-
And the star that "swaps" light with a candle,
Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes !—
Not the thing!
As the chill'd robin, bound to Florida
Upon a morn of autumn, crosses flying
The air-track of a snipe most passing fair
Yet colder in her blood than she is fair-
And as that robin lingers on the wing,
And feels the snipe's flight in the eddying air,
And loves her for her coldness not the less-
But fain would win her to that warmer sky
Where love lies waking with the fragrant stars—
Lo I—a languisher for sunnier climes,
Where fruit, leaf, blossom, on the trees forever
Image the tropic deathlessness of love—
Have met, and long'd to win thee, fairest lady,
To a more genial clime than cold Broadway!
Tranquil and effortless thou glidest on,
As doth the swan upon the yielding water,
And with a cheek like alabaster cold!
But as thou didst divide the amorous air
Just opposite the Astor, and didst lift
That vail of languid lashes to look in
At Leary's tempting window-lady! then
My heart sprang in beneath that fringéd vail,
Like an adventurous bird that would escape
To some warm chamber from the outer cold!
And there would I delightedly remain,
And close that fringéd window with a kiss,
And in the warm sweet chamber of thy breast,
Be prisoner forever!
'T was late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came
Through the unshutter'd window on the air,
And the rich pictures with their dark old tints
Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things
Seem'd hush'd into a slumber.
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt,
And with the fervor of a lip unused
To the cool breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss
Upon it unforbidden—and again
Besought her, that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart,
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd
Earnestly on me—She had been asleep !
THEY may talk of love in a cottage,
And bowers of trellised vine-
Of nature bewitchingly simple,
And milkmaids half divine;
They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,
By the side of a footstep free!
But give me a sly flirtation
By the light of a chandelierWith music to play in the pauses,
And nobody very near:
Or a seat on a silken sofa,
With a glass of pure old wine, And mamma too blind to discover
The small white hand in mine.
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