For he lays before her glist'ning eyes All-all, my darling, to be thine If only thou wilt be but mine!' Cried he with fervour and delight, While love made his dim eyes grow bright. His grizzly beard, and scanty hair That without doubt all he possessed With her as his own darling wife, Tho' albeit his span of life, Was somewhat narrow and confined, But wealth and love, these two combined, Would cover any want so small, As that of youth, which after all, Is merely an imagination Compared to money and high station. What woman would such good refuse! 'Twere tempting Fate such luck to lose! And so the maid was quite convinced, The matter now no longer minced, Accepted him who thus had wooed her, And took the money and the suitor. Her lot since then, I dare not say; A LETTER (WRITTEN IN A DRAUGHTY ROOM) WITHOUT the snow lies on the ground; Within the wind doth play Upon my back, and all around (Thou know'st its little way). My fingers stiffen as I write In this too airy place, For sundry draughts now take their flight, And rise from feet to face. They settle on my shoulders chill; They run adown my spine, Ah, how can I this letter fill Or make another sign? Thou know'st full well the truth of this, For often thou didst swear, When zephyrs bold thy cheek would kiss, And take thee unaware. And then, perchance, an ugly sneeze, And almost bring thee on thy knees; Now write me, write me, son of mine, The pages long and sweet, And let each goodly, newsy line Be ample, full, complete. The overflowing measure mete Beyond what thou dost owe; Then I'll peruse each covered sheet, Skimp not the herald mute, that speaks Of all that comes to thee; That tells the doings of past weeks So truthfully to me. And when thou sittest down to think In calm and quiet mood, Just take the handy pen and ink, And on the virgin paper pour The utterance of the soul is thus It is thyself who speaks to us, Although no longer here. |