'Tis kind winter that I wish for;-
How I long to hear the hail
Rattling on deserted pavements,
Dancing in the stormy gale!
For I then could see her windows,
Watch my darling through each pane
Now the lime-trees are in blossom,-
Tiresome Spring! you've come again!
́ES! I know you're very fair;
YES And the rose-bloom of your cheek,
And the gold-crown of your hair,
Seem of tender love to speak.
But to me they speak in vain,
I am growing old, my pet-
Ah, if I could love you now
As I used to love Rosette!
In your carriage every day
I can see you bow and smile; Lovers your least word obey,
Mistress you of every
She was poor, and went on foot,
Badly drest, you know,—and yet,—
Ah! if I could love you now
As I used to love Rosette!
You are clever, and well known
For your wit so quick and free;-
Now, Rosette, I blush to own,
Scarcely knew her A B C;
But she had a potent charm
In my youth:-ah, vain regret!
If I could but love you now
As I used to love Rosette!
SHE IS SO PRETTY
HE is so pretty, the girl I love,
Her eyes are tender and deep and blue As the summer night in the skies above, As violets seen through a mist of dew. How can I hope, then, her heart to gain? She is so pretty, and I am so plain!
She is so pretty, so fair to see!
Scarcely she's counted her nineteenth spring,
Fresh, and blooming, and young,-ah me!
Why do I thus her praises sing?
Surely from me 'tis a senseless strain,
She is so pretty, and I am so plain!
She is so pretty, so sweet and dear,
There's many a lover who loves her well; I may not hope, I can only fear,
Yet shall I venture my love to tell? . . . Ah! I have pleaded, and not in vain— Though she's so pretty, and I am so plain. Béranger.
ENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add,
E the fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.
Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen be your apples.
When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then's the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
Leigh Hunt (from the Italian).
PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing
When I was six and you were four:
When garlands weaving, flower balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wander'd hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.
You grew a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you very dearly-
How dearly, words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
O, then, I thought my heart was breaking,—
But that was forty years ago.
And I lived on to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression;—
But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christen'd:-
But that was twenty years ago.
Time passed. My eldest girl was married
And I now am a grandsire grey;
One pet of four years old I've carried
Among the wild-flower'd meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,-
And that is not ten years ago.
But tho' first love's impassion'd blindness
Has pass'd away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.
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