I would not flatter thee--and yet must say Thou hast a witching gracefulness of motion, A dream-like lightness; and thou hast a way Of sweetly smiling, like the rippled ocean, When on it joyously the moonbeams play; And thou hast gaiety softened by devotion, Aye, and good nature, which, upon inspection, I always found developed in extreme perfection. I would not flatter thee--much less, would know The pungent strength of critical acidity For talking _prettily_ of ‘twilight glow,’ And ‘moons,’ and ‘sighs’--all types of insipidity. And yet I say not that the earth can show Ought more enchanting than the deep placidity Stealing around us on a moonlight eve, When winds are hushed in sleep, and clouds the heavens leave. And when, at that most heart-ensnaring time, With thee I gaze upon the huge old man Reigning in yon pale center-light of rhyme, Or in the heavens the path of Venus scan, Or fancy from the spheres the distant chime Of evening bells--I will not say that then Strange feelings come not o’er me, soft and solemn, Producing--tears, perhaps, and poetry by the volume. I will not say that then I have not found In thee almost an Angel’s loveliness, Or that thy voice has not as sweet a sound As music on the waters, or that less Than a bright spirit’s influence has bound My soul in that fond dream of blessedness, Which, vastly strengthened by thy conversation, Has seemed, to say the least, a sweet hallucination. I would not flatter thee--much less, indeed, Would seem, in poetry, a _Della Cruscan_; I own not that, nor any kindred creed; Nor do I like the sentimental fustian, Which modern fashionables so much read.-- Now he who honestly professes thus, can By law poetic, ne’er be an offender, Though, now and then, he _seem_ a little over-tender. From friends long loved how hard it is to part! How hard, indeed, from one but _briefly_ known-- From _thee_, sweet bird of passage, as thou art-- Charming awhile, but oh, how quickly flown! Aye, thou’rt away:--and my unguarded heart-- Whither, ah, whither has the truant gone? In vain I search;--didst _thou_, fair maiden, take it? Then, cast it not away, for rudeness sure would break it! RUMINATIONS OF A BOVINE GENTLEMAN. AUTHOR’S CHARACTER. “----Secum meditari ingenium est _boûm_.” _Virgil._