« PreviousContinue »
SLIPS of a kidskin deftly sewn,
It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek, A scent as through her garden blown, Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek; The tender hue that clothes her dove, The hand that when the light wind All these, and this is Gerty's Glove.
Reproves those laughing locks of hers. A Glove but lately dofft, for lookIt keeps the happy shape it took
You Fingers four, you little Thumb! Warm from her touch! What gave the Were I but you, in days to come glow?
I'd clasp, and kiss,—I'd keep her. Go! And where's the Mould that shaped it so? And tell her that I told you so.
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM.
Our love was like most other loves ;
A little glow, a little shiver,
And “Fly not yet”-upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,
Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,
The usual vows,-and then we parted.
We parted; months and years roll'd by;
We met again four summers after: Our parting was all sob and sigh;
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter: For in my heart's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's Belle, But only–Mrs. Something Rogers!
Winthrop M. Praed.