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- The Home Book of Verse, Volume 4 - 2/53 -

As the melody fittest for Love.

In Ethics - 'tis you that can check, In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels; Oh! show but that mole on your neck, And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip When to kiss and to count you endeavor; But eloquence glows on your lip When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance Of arts is assembled in you, - A course of more exquisite science Man never need wish to pursue.

And, oh! - if a Fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]


I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet; Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet! I'd never languish for wealth, or for power, I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet: I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower, Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.

O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy, I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer days' ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary; Power, alas! naught but misery brings! I'd be a Butterfly, sportive and airy, Rocked in a rose when the nightingale sings!

What, though you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day: Surely 'tis better when summer is over To die when all fair things are fading away. Some in life's winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay - I'd be a butterfly; living, a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away!

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

"I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN" Lines Written In A Young Lady's Album

A pretty task, Miss S---, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men.

No lover's plaint my Muse must paint To fill this page's span, But be correct and recollect I'm not a single man.

Pray only think, for pen and ink How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn, Or Love, the life of song! Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan; But one Miss S--- I daren't address - I'm not a single man.

Scribblers unwed, with little head, May eke it out with heart And in their lays it often plays A rare first-fiddle part. They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if I so began, I have my fears about my ears - I'm not a single man.

Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip be warm, I must be wise about your eyes, And formal with your form; Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T. H. Bayly's plan, I must not twine a single line - I'm not a single man.

A watchman's part compels my heart To keep you off its beat, And I might dare as soon to swear At you, as at your feet. I can't expire in passion's fire As other poets can - My life (she's by) won't let me die - I'm not a single man.

Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden bow and dart; Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart; To Hymen vowed, and not allowed To flirt e'en with your fan, Here end, as just a friend, I must - I'm not a single man.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

TO ---

We met but in one giddy dance, Good-night joined hands with greeting; And twenty thousand things may chance Before our second meeting; For oh! I have been often told That all the world grows older, And hearts and hopes to-day so cold, To-morrow must be colder.

If I have never touched the string Beneath your chamber, dear one, And never said one civil thing When you were by to hear one, - If I have made no rhymes about Those looks which conquer Stoics, And heard those angel tones, without One fit of fair heroics, -

Yet do not, though the world's cold school Some bitter truths has taught me, Oh, do not deem me quite the fool Which wiser friends have thought me! There is one charm I still could feel, If no one laughed at feeling; One dream my lute could still reveal, - If it were worth revealing.

But Folly little cares what name Of friend or foe she handles, When merriment directs the game, And midnight dims the candles; I know that Folly's breath is weak And would not stir a feather; But yet I would not have her speak Your name and mine together.

Oh no! this life is dark and bright, Half rapture and half sorrow; My heart is very full to-night, My cup shall be to-morrow! But they shall never know from me, On any one condition, Whose health made bright my Burgundy, Whose beauty was my vision!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed [1802-1839]


Some years ago, ere Time and Taste Had turned our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the Green, And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath; Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlor steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow"; The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reached his journey's end, And warmed himself in court or college, He had not gained an honest friend,

The Home Book of Verse, Volume 4 - 2/53

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