A Warning
He
I loathe all books. I hate to see
The world and men through others’ eyes;
My own are good enough for me.
These scribbling fellows I despise;
They bore me.
I used to try to read a bit,
But, when I did, a sleepy fit
Came o’er me.
Yet here I sit with pensive look,
Filling my pipe with fragrant loads,
Gazing in rapture at a book!—
A free translation of the Odes
Of Horace.
’Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth,
And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath
Of orris.
I longed for something that was hers
To cheer me when I’m feeling low;
I saw this book of paltry verse,
And asked to take it home—and so
She lent it.
I love her deep and tenderly,
Yet dare not tell my love, lest she
Resent it.
I’ll learn to quote a stanza here,
A couplet there. I’m very sure
’Twould aid my suit could I appear
Au fait in books and literature.
I’ll do it!
This jingle I can quickly learn;
Then, hid in roses, I’ll return
Her poet!
She
The hateful man! ’Twould vex a saint!
Around my pretty, cherished book,
The odor vile, the noisome taint
Of horrid, stale tobacco-smoke
Yet lingers!
The hateful man, my book to spoil!
Patrick, the tongs—lest I should soil
My fingers!
This lovely rose, these lilies frail,
These violets he has sent to me
The odor of his pipe exhale!
Am I to blame that I should be
Enraged?
Tell Mr. Simpson every time
He calls upon me, Patrick, I’m
Engaged!
ARTHUR LOVELL.