The Sarbonne was that bucolic place Where night till day my passion throve: ’Tis thus that an ardent youngster makes The Student’s Quarter a Realm of Love. O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine! Sky-parlor reaching heavenward far, In whose depths, when you drew your stocking on, I saw a twinkling morning-star. Hard-learned Plato I’ve long forgot: Neither Malebranche nor Lamennais Could teach me such faith in Providence As the flower which in your bosom lay. You were my servant and I your slave: O golden attic! O joy, to lace Your corset; to watch you showing, at morn, The ancient mirror your youthful face! Ah! who indeed could ever forget That sky and dawn commingling still; That rìbbony, flowery, gauzy glory, And Love’s sweet nonsense talked at will? Our garden a pot of tulips was; Your petticoat curtained the window-pane; I took the earthen bowl of my pipe And gave you a cup of porcelain. What huge disasters to make us fun! Your muff afire; your tippet lost; And that cherished portrait of Shakespeare, sold, One hungry evening, at half its cost. I was a beggar and you were kind: A kiss from your fair round arms I’d steal, While the folio-Dante we gayly spread With a hundred chestnuts, our frugal meal. And oh! when first my favored mouth A kiss to your burning lips had given, You were dishevelled and all aglow; I, pale with rapture, believed in Heaven. Do you remember our countless joys, Those neckerchiefs rumpled every day? Alas, what sighs from our boding hearts The infinite skies have borne away! THE BLAMELESS PRINCE AND OTHER POEMS. 1869. Affectionately Enscribed TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. THE BLAMELESS PRINCE. PRELUDE. _Poet, wherefore hither bring_ _Old romance, while others sing_ _Sweeter idyls of to-day?_ _Why not picture in your lay_ _Western woods and waters grand,_ _Clouds and skies of this fair land?_ _Are there fairer far away?_ I have many another song Of those regions where belong, First of all, my heart and home. If for once my fancy roam, Trust me, in the land I view Falls the sunshine, falls the dew, And the Spring and Summer come. _Why from yonder stubble glean_ _Ancient names of King and Queen,_ _Knightly men and maidens fair?_ _Are there in our time no rare_ _Beauteous women, heroes brave?_ _Is there naught this side the grave_ _Worth the dust you gather there?_ Nay, but these were human too, Strong or wayward, false or true. Art will seek through every clime For her picture or her rhyme; Yes, nor looking far around, But to-day I sought and found These who lived in that old time.