I know not who thou art, thou lovely one, Thine eyes were drooped, thy lips half sorrowful, Yet didst thou eloquently smile on me, While handing up thy sixpence through the hole Of that o'er-freighted omnibus!--ah, me!-- The world is full of meetings such as this; A thrill--a voiceless challenge and reply, And sudden partings after--we may pass, And know not of each other's nearness now, Thou in the Knickerbocker line, and I Lone in the Waverley! Oh! life of pain; And even should I pass where thou dost dwell-- Nay, see thee in the basement taking tea-- So cold is this inexorable world, I must glide on, I dare not feast mine eye, I dare not make articulate my love, Nor o'er the iron rails that hem thee in Venture to throw to thee my innocent card, Not knowing thy papa. Hast thou papa? Is thy progenitor alive, fair girl? And what doth he for lucre? Lo again! A shadow o'er the face of this fair dream! For thou may'st be as beautiful as Love Can make thee, and the ministering hands Of milliners, incapable of more, Be lifted at thy shapeliness and air, And still 'twixt me and thee, invisibly, May rise a wall of adamant. My breath Upon my pale lip freezes as I name Manhattan's orient verge, and eke the west In its far down extremity. Thy sire May be the signer of a temperance pledge, And clad all decently may walk the earth-- Nay--may be number'd with that blessed few Who never ask for discount--yet, alas! If, homeward wending from his daily cares, He go by Murphy's Line, thence eastward tending-- Or westward from the Line of Kipp & Brown-- My vision is departed! Harshly falls The doom upon the ear, "She's not genteel!" And pitiless is woman who doth keep Of "good society" the golden key! And gentlemen are bound, as are the stars, To stoop not after rising! But farewell, And I shall look for thee in streets where dwell The passengers by Broadway Lines alone! And if my dreams be true, and thou, indeed, Art only not more lovely than genteel-- Then, lady of the snow-white chemisette, The heart which vent'rously cross'd o'er to thee Upon that bridge of sixpence, may remain-- And, with up-town devotedness and truth, My love shall hover round thee! COME OUT, LOVE. N. P. WILLIS. Argument.--The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment. Come out, love--the night is enchanting! The moon hangs just over Broadway; The stars are all lighted and panting-- (Hot weather up there, I dare say!) 'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices, And love is no better for chilling-- But come up to Thompson's for ices, And cool your warm heart for a shilling!