Sagittulae, Random Verses | Page 8

pulse beats with the feeling?That a Spirit loved was there.
A VALENTINE.
O how shall I write a love-ditty?To my Alice on Valentine's day??How win the affection or pity?Of a being so lively and gay??For I'm an unpicturesque creature,?Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze?Without a respectable feature,?With a squint and a very queer nose.
But she is a being seraphic,?Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;?Who can talk in a manner most graphic?Every possible language on earth.?When she's roaming in regions Italic,?You would think her a fair Florentine;?She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic?Better far than Rousseau or Racine.
She sings--sweeter far than a cymbal?(A sound which I never have heard);?She plays--and her fingers most nimble?Make music more soft than a bird.?She speaks--'tis like melody stealing?O'er the Mediterranean sea;?She smiles--I am instantly kneeling?On each gouty and corpulent knee.
'Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven?(Where else it should shine I don't know),?And like fire-flies the Pleiades seven?Are winking at mortals below:?Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,?My heart they will ne'er lead astray;?Nor the soft silken memories sever,?Which bind me to Alice De Grey.
If I roam thro' the dim Coliseum,?Her fairy form follows me there;?If I list to the solemn "Te Deum,"?Her voice seems to join in the prayer.?"Sweet spirit" I seem to remember,?O would she were near me to hum it;?As I heard her in sunny September,?On the Rigi's a?rial summit!
O Alice where art thou? No answer?Comes to cheer my disconsolate heart;?Perhaps she has married a lancer,?Or a bishop, or baronet smart;?Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room,?She is dancing, nor thinking of me;?Or riding in front of a small groom;?Or tossed in a tempest at sea;
Or listening to sweet Donizetti,?In Venice, or Rome, or La Scala;?Or walking alone on a jetty;?Or buttering bread in a parlour;?Perhaps, at our next merry meeting,?She will find me dull, married, and gray;?So I'll send her this juvenile greeting?On the Eve of St. Valentine's day.
A CURATE'S COMPLAINT.
Where are they all departed,?The loved ones of my youth,?Those emblems white of purity,?Sweet innocence and truth??When day-light drives the darkness,?When evening melts to night,?When noon-day suns burn brightest,?They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embraces?Around my neck and throat,?The thousand winning graces?Whereon I used to dote.?I know I may find markets?Where love is bought and sold,?But no such love can equal?The tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman,?I know that you are true;?The least shade of suspicion?Can never fall on you.?Then fear me not, as fiercely?I fix on thee stern eyes,?And ask in terms emphatic,?"Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen,?Yet scarce a year is gone,?Ere, looking in my ward-robe,?I find that I have none.?I don't believe in magic,?I know that you are true,?Yet say, my washer-woman,?What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collar?To regions far elope,?Regions by starch untainted,?And innocent of soap??I know not; but in future?I'll buy no more white ties,?But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'?Of Ritualistic guise.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
There once was a time when I revelled in
rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and
poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running
cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old
hoss, poor Pegasus limps, and is jaded.
And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor, duns
me for this or that article,
Though he very well knows that of Verse and of
prose I am stripped to the very last particle.
What shall I write of? What subject indite of?
All my vis viva is failing;
Emeritus sum; Mons Parnassus is dumb, and my
prayers to the Nine unavailing.--
Thus in vain have I often attempted to soften
the hard heart of Mr. Arenae;
Like a sop, I must throw him some sort of a
poem, in spite of unwilling Camenae.

No longer I roam in my Johnian home, no more
in the "wilderness" wander;
And absence we know, for the Poet says so,
makes the heart of the lover grow fonder.
I pine for the Cam, like a runaway lamb that
misses his woolly-backed mother;
I can find no relief for my passionate grief, nor
my groanings disconsolate smother.
Say, how are you all in our old College Hall?
Are the dinners more costly, or plainer?
How are Lecturers, Tutors, Tobacco and Pewters,
and how is my friend, the Complainer?
Are the pupils of Merton, and students of Girton,
increasing in numbers, or fewer?
Are they pretty, or plain? Humble-minded or
vain? Are they paler, or pinker, or bluer?
How's the party of stormers, our so-called
Reformers? Are Moral and Natural Sciences
Improving men's Minds? Who the money now
finds, for Museums, and all their appliances?
Is Philosophy thriving, or sound sense reviving?
Is high-table talk metaphysic?
Will dark blue or light have the best of the
fight, at Putney and Mortlake and Chiswick?
I often importune the favour of Fortune, that no
misadventure may cross us,
And Rhodes once again on the watery plain,
may prove