’Tis but a half-hour’s walk the Mill-Dam o’er, Past Punch Bowl Inn, where, by the turnpike’s side, The shaded pathway winding to the door, The mansion rises in ancestral pride:-- Its shaven lawn, and blossoming orchard hoar, And trellised vines, and hedges trim and neat, Show plenty and refinement here abide,-- The generous gentleman’s fair country-seat. Now, whilst the full moon glances soft and bright O’er Mall and Mill-Dam and suburban street, Turn hitherward thine unaccustomed feet, At afternoon, or evening, or late night; A change of scene oft rare attraction lends To new acquaintance, as to older friends. “_If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand: My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts._” SHAKESPEARE. VII. The morning’s clear, the sky without a frown, The dew-bespangled pastures wet the shoe; Sauntering full early toward the sleeping town, We’ll take the dry, well-trodden avenue; On these crisp pathways, and familiar grounds (Unless my flattering heart be over-bold), While lingering purposely amid our rounds, Some shady lane may love to hear all told. One name has captured his too partial ear,-- (These kind, concealing bushes love invite No tell-tales are, nor neighbors impolite;) I’ll hear his suit devoid of blame or fear. Impatiently the moment I await; Who nothing ventures, stays disconsolate. “_Who knows thy destiny? when thou hast done, Perchance her cabinet may harbor thee, Whither all noble ambitious wits do run, A nest almost as full of good as she. Mark if to get thee she o’erskip the rest, Mark if she read thee thrice, and kiss the name, Mark if she do the same that they protest, Mark if she mark whither her woman came._” DONNE. VIII. Mean are all titles of nobility, And kings poor spendthrifts, while I do compare The wealth she daily lavishes on me Of love, the noble kingdom that I share: Is it the jealous year, for emphasis, Sheds beauteous sunshine and refreshing dews? My maiden’s month doth softlier court and kiss, Tint springtime’s virgin cheek with rosier hues Fly faster o’er my page, impassioned quill, Signing this note of mine with tenderer touch! Say I no measure find to mete my will, Say that I love, but cannot tell how much; Let time and trouble the full story tell: I cannot love thee more, I know I love thee well. “_Let raptured fancy on that moment dwell When thy dear vows in trembling accents fell, When love acknowledged waked the tender sigh, Swelled thy full breast, and filled the melting eye._”