Perhaps some seaman, in Peru Or Ind, hath stow’d herein a rare Cargo of birds’ eggs for his Sue; With many a vow that he’ll be true, And many a hint that she is too, Too fair. Perhaps—but wherefore vainly pry Into the page that’s folded there? I shall be better by and by: The porters, as I sit and sigh, Pass and repass—I wonder why They stare! ON THE BRINK. I WATCH’D her as she stoop’d to pluck A wildflower in her hair to twine; And wish’d that it had been my luck To call her mine. Anon I heard her rate with mad Mad words her babe within its cot; And felt particularly glad That it had not. I knew (such subtle brains have men) That she was uttering what she shouldn’t; And thought that I would chide, and then I thought I wouldn’t: Who could have gazed upon that face, Those pouting coral lips, and chided? A Rhadamanthus, in my place, Had done as I did: For ire wherewith our bosoms glow Is chain’d there oft by Beauty’s spell; And, more than that, I did not know The widow well. So the harsh phrase pass’d unreproved. Still mute—(O brothers, was it sin?)— I drank, unutterably moved, Her beauty in: And to myself I murmur’d low, As on her upturn’d face and dress The moonlight fell, “Would she say No, By chance, or Yes?” She stood so calm, so like a ghost Betwixt me and that magic moon, That I already was almost A finish’d coon. But when she caught adroitly up And soothed with smiles her little daughter; And gave it, if I’m right, a sup Of barley-water; And, crooning still the strange sweet lore Which only mothers’ tongues can utter, Snow’d with deft hand the sugar o’er Its bread and butter; And kiss’d it clingingly—(Ah, why Don’t women do these things in private?)— I felt that if I lost her, I Should not survive it: And from my mouth the words nigh flew— The past, the future, I forgat ’em: “Oh! if you’d kiss me as you do That thankless atom!” But this thought came ere yet I spake, And froze the sentence on my lips: “They err, who marry wives that make Those little slips.” It came like some familiar rhyme, Some copy to my boyhood set; And that’s perhaps the reason I’m Unmarried yet. Would she have own’d how pleased she was, And told her love with widow’s pride? I never found out that, because I never tried. Be kind to babes and beasts and birds: Hearts may be hard, though lips are coral; And angry words are angry words: And that’s the moral. “FOREVER.” FOREVER; ’tis a single word! Our rude forefathers deem’d it two: Can you imagine so absurd A view?