The Quaker Coquette
DEAR coy coquette, but once we met—
But once, and yet ’twas once too often,
Plunged unawares in silvery snares,
All vain my prayers her heart to soften;
Yet seems so true her eyes of blue,
Veined lids and longest lashes under,
Good angels dwelt therein, I felt,
And could have knelt in reverent wonder.
Poor heart, alas! what eye could pass
The auburn mass of curls caressing
Her pure white brow, made regal now
By this simplicity of dressing.
Lips dewy, red as Cupid’s bed
Of rose-leaves shed on Mount Hymettus,
With balm imbued they might be wooed,
But ah! coy prude, she will not let us.
No jewels deck her radiant neck—
What pearl could reck its hue to rival?
A pin of gold—the fashion old—
A ribbon-fold, or some such trifle;
And—beauty chief! the lily’s leaf
In dark relief sets off the whiteness
Of all the breast not veiled and pressed
Beneath her collar’s Quaker tightness.
And milk-white robes o’er snowier globes
As Roman maids are drawn by Gibbon,
With classic taste are gently braced
Around her waist beneath a ribbon;
And thence unrolled in billowy fold
Profuse and bold—a silken torrent—
Not hide, but dim each rounded limb,
Well-turned, and trim, and plump, I warrant.
Oh, Quaker maid, were I more staid,
Or you a shade less archly pious;
If soberest suit from crown to boot
Could chance uproot your Quaker bias,
How gladly so, in weeds of woe,
From head to toe my frame I’d cover,
That in the end the convert “friend”
Might thus ascend—a convert lover.
Charles Graham Halpin.