From the Manuscript of a Sexagenarian

In youth, when pen and fingers firstCoined rhymes for all who choose to seek ’em,Ere luring hope’s gay bubbles burst,Or Chitty was my vade mecum,Ere years had charactered my browWith the deep lines, that well become it,Or told me that warm hearts could growCold as Mont Blanc’s snow-covered summit--

When my slow step and solemn swingWere steadier and somewhat brisker,When velvet collars were “the thing,”And long before I wore a whisker,Ere I had measured six foot two,Or bought Havannas by the dozen,I fell in love--as many do--She was an angel--hem--my cousin.

Sometimes my eye, its furtive glanceCast back on memory’s shorthand record,I wonder--if by any chanceLife’s future page will be so checkered!My angel cousin!--ah! her form--Her lofty brow--her curls of raven,Eyes darker than the thunder-storm,Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.

Her lips with music eloquentAs her own grand upright piano;No--never yet was Peri lentTo earth like thee, sweet Adriana.I may not--dare not--call to mindThe joys that once my breast elated,Though yet, methinks, the morning windSweeps over my ear, with thy tones freighted:

And then I pause, and turn asideFrom pleasure’s throng of pangless-hearted,To weep! No. Sentiment and prideAre by each other always thwarted!I press my hand upon my brow,To still the throbbing pulse that heaves it,Recall my boyhood’s faltered vow,And marvel--if she still believes it.

But she is woman--and her heart,Like her tiara’s brightest jewel,Cold--hard--till kindled by some art,Then quenchless burns--itself its fuel--So poets say. Well, let it pass,And those who list may yield it credit;But as for constancy, alas!I’ve never known--I’ve only read it.

Love! ’tis a roving fire, at mostThe cuerpo santa of life’s ocean;Now flashing through the storm, now lost--Who trust, ’tis said, rue their devotion.It may be, ’tis a mooted creed--I have my doubts, and it--believers,Though one is faithless--where’s the needOf shunning all--as gay deceivers?

I said I loved. I did. But oursWas felt, not growled hyæna fashion!We wandered not at midnight hours,Some dignity restrained the passion!We loved--I never stooped to woo;We met--I always doffed my beaver;She smiled a careless “How d’ye do--Good morning, sir,”--I rose to leave her.

She loved--she never told me so;I never asked--I could not doubt it;For there were signs on cheek and brow;And asking! Love is known without it!’Twas understood--we were content,And rode, and sang, and waltzed together!Alone, without embarrassmentWe talked of something--not the weather!

Time rolled along--the parting hourWith arrowy speed brought its distresses,A kiss--a miniature--a flower--A ringlet from those raven tresses;And the tears that would unbidden start,(An hour, perhaps, and they had perished,)In the far chambers of my heart,I swore her image should be cherished.

I’ve looked on peril--it has glaredIn fashionable forms upon me,From levelled aim--from weapon bared--And doctors three attending on me!But never did my sternness waneAt pang by shot or steel imparted;I’d not recall that hour of painFor years of bliss--it passed--we parted.

We parted--though her tear-gemmed cheeks,Her heaving breast had thus unmanned me--She quite forgot me in three weeks!And other beauties soon trepanned me.We met--and did not find it hardJoy’s overwhelming tide to smother--There was a “Mrs.” on her card,And I--was married to another.