Nor listen to the charming cry Of contest or of victory, That speaks what those young bosoms feel, As keel is pressing fast on keel; Oh! bright these glories still shall be, But they shall never dawn for me. CHARADES. I. THERE was a time young Roland thought Silent he sits, nor cares to follow His deep-mouth'd stag-hound's matin burst, How is it now, when Isabel Breathes one low note of those sweet numbers, That every thought of hill and dell, And all save that sweet minstrel-slumbers. Why does he feel that long, dull pain Within my Second when she leaves him? When shall his falcon fly again? When shall he break the spell that grieves him? And Isabel-how is it, too, That sadness o'er that young brow closes? How hath her eye lost half its blue? How have her cheeks lost all their roses ? Still on her lute sweet numbers dwell, Still magic seems the breath that sways it; One summer's eve, while Isabel Sang till the starlight came to greet her, A tear from Roland's eyelid fell, And warp'd the string and spoil'd the metre. She could not sing another note; Wherefore, or why, I've not a notion; And he the swelling in his throat Seemed working from some poisonous potion. I know not-I-how sigh or tear Witnessed, you'll say, such strange conclusions. Beside my All I saw them sit; And that same lute of song so tender A little child was thumping it With all his might—against the fender! And Isabel-she sang no more, But ever that small urchin followed; Who with the lute upon the floor, Like a young dryad, whooped and holloed! And Roland's hound is heard again, And Roland's hawk hath loosened jesses! But Roland's smile is brightest when Beside my All his boy he presses. II. SIR HARRY is famed for his amiable way Not a word that he said could the maiden tell! Sir Harry has ears, and Sir Harry has eyes, His nose is a nose of the every-day sort— And his breath, tho' resembling in naught the "sweet south," Is inhaled through his lips, and exhaled from his mouth; And yet from the hour that Sir Harry was nursed, People said that his head was no more than my First! Sir Harry has ringlets he curls every day, Were a youth that I know to be caught in the noose; For I've oft heard her say—tho' so flighty she's reckoned That she'd ne'er take a bridegroom who hadn't my Se cond! Sir Harry sat out, the last visit he paid, From when breakfast was over, till dinner was laid! Of the ball and the ballet-the park and the play. Little Rosa, who hoped, ere the whole day had passed, III. MORNING is beaming o'er brake and bower, Lo! where my Second, in gorgeous array, With an arching neck, and a glancing eye. Spread is the banquet, and studied the song; Ranged in meet order the menial throng, Jerome is ready with book and stole, And the maidens fling flowers, but where is my Whole. Look to the hill, is he climbing its side? |