'Mitte sectari, ROSA quo locorum Sera moretur.' -- HOR. i. 38. I HAD a vacant dwelling -- Where situated, I, As naught can serve the telling, Decline to specify; -- Enough 'twas neither haunted, Entailed, nor out of date; I put up 'Tenant Wanted,' And left the rest to Fate. Then, Rose, you passed the window, -- I see you passing yet, -- Ah, what could I within do, When, Rose, our glances met! You snared me, Rose, with ribbons, Your rose-mouth made me thrall, Brief -- briefer far than Gibbon's, Was my 'Decline and Fall.' I heard the summons spoken That all hear -- king and clown: You smiled -- the ice was broken; You stopped -- the bill was down. How blind we are! It never Occurred to me to seek If you had come for ever, Or only for a week. The words your voice neglected, Seemed written in your eyes; The thought your heart protected, Your cheek told, missal-wise; -- I read the rubric plainly As any Expert could; In short, we dreamed, -- insanely, As only lovers should. I broke the tall OEnone, That then my chambers graced, Because she seemed 'too bony,' To suit your purist taste; And you, without vexation, May certainly confess Some graceful approbation, Designed a mon adresse. You liked me then, carina, -- You liked me then, I think; For your sake gall had been a Mere tonic-cup to drink; For your sake, bonds were trivial, The rack, a tour-de-force; And banishment, convivial, -- You coming too, of course. Then, Rose, a word in jest meant Would throw you in a state That no well-timed investment Could quite alleviate; Beyond a Paris trousseau You prized my smile, I know: I, yours -- ah, more than Rousseau The lip of d'Houdetot. Then, Rose, -- But why pursue it? When Fate begins to frown, Best write the final 'fuit,' And gulp the physic down. And yet, -- and yet, that only, The song should end with this: -- You left me, -- left me lonely, Rosa mutabilis! Left me, with Time for Mentor, (A dreary tete-a-tete!) To pen my 'Last Lament,' or Extemporize to Fate, In blankest verse disclosing My bitterness of mind, -- Which is, I learn, composing In cases of the kind. No, Rose. Though you refuse me, Culture the pang prevents; 'I am not made' -- excuse me -- 'Of so slight elements'; I leave to common lovers The hemlock or the hood; My rarer soul recovers In dreams of public good. The Roses of this nation -- Or so I understand From careful computation -- Exceed the gross demand; And, therefore, in civility To maids that can't be matched, No man of sensibility Should linger unattached. So, without further fashion -- A modern Curtius, Plunging, from pure compassion, To aid the overplus, -- I sit down, sad -- not daunted, And, in my weeds, begin A new card -- 'Tenant Wanted, Particulars within.' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR LAUREL AND HARDY ON MY WORKROOM WALL by DAVID WAGONER SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 13 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING ON GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOK, THE TEMPLE, SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN by RICHARD CRASHAW THE MAGNETIC MOUNTAIN: 32 by CECIL DAY LEWIS THE JEW TO JESUS by FLORENCE KIPER FRANK SONNET: 19. ON HIS BLINDNESS by JOHN MILTON TWO SONGS FROM THE PERSIAN: 1 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE GHOST OF ABEL; A RELATION IN THE VISIONS OF JEHOVAH by WILLIAM BLAKE |