XIX A Rival
It seems I have a rival
Domiciled over the way;
But Blanche, dear heart, dislikes him,
Whatever her father may say—
This gorgeously broadclothed fellow,
Good enough in his way.
To-day as I left the church-yard,
I met them taking a ride,
And my heart was pierced like a buckler
With a javelin of pride;
I only saw in my anger
They were sitting side by side.
To-night, in the purple twilight,
Blanche waited upon the walk,
And beckoned her white hand to me—
A lily swayed on its stalk.
Soon my jealous pride was foundered
In the maelstrom of talk.
’Twas useless to go to the church-yard,
For some one had played the spy;
She fancied it was the sexton—
We would let it all go by;
We now would have bolder meetings,
’Neath her father’s very eye.
She took my arm as we idled,
And talked of our love once more,
And how, with her basket of flowers,
She had passed the street before;
We tarried long in the moonlight,
And kissed good-night at her door.