Can bloom like thine—my heart grows chill— Have sought that bourne unwelcome still To bosom smarting? The most forlorn—what worms we are!— Would wish to finish this cigar Before departing. I sometimes to Pall Mall repair, And see the damsels passing there; But though I try to Obtain one glance, they look discreet, As though they’d someone else to meet,— As have not _I_ too? Yet still I often muse upon Our many meetings—come and gone! July—December! Now let us make a tryste, and when, Dear little soul, we meet again, In some serener sphere, why then— Thy Friend remember! THE RUSSET PITCHER “The Pitcher may go often to the Well, but it gets broken at last.” Away, ye simple ones, away! Bring no vain fancies hither; The brightest dreams of youth decay, The fairest roses wither. Aye, since this fountain first was plann’d, And Dryad learnt to drink, Have lovers held, knit hand in hand, Sweet parley at its brink. From youth to age this waterfall Most tunefully flows on, But where, aye! tell me where, are all Those constant lovers gone? The falcon on the turtle preys, And fondest vows are lither, The brightest dream of youth decays, The fairest roses wither. “Thy Russet Pitcher set adown, Fair maid, and list to one Who much this sorry world hath known,— A muser thereupon. Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold, Youth flatters and beguiles, Though Giles is young,—and I am old,— Ne’er trust thy heart to Giles. Thy Pitcher may some luckless day Be broken coming hither, Thy doting slave may prove a knave,— The fairest roses wither.” She laugh’d outright, she scorn’d him quite, She fill’d her Russet Pitcher;— For that dear sight an anchorite Might deem himself the richer. Ill-fated maiden! go thy ways, Thy lover’s vows are lither, The brightest dream of youth decays, The fairest roses wither. * * * * * These days are soon the days of yore; Six summers pass, and then That musing man would see once more The fountain in the glen. Again to stray where once he stray’d, Those woods with verdure richer; Half hoping to espy the maid Come tripping with her pitcher. No light step comes, but, evil-starr’d, He finds a mournful token,— There lies a Russet Pitcher marr’d, The damsel’s pitcher broken! Profoundly moved, that muser cried: The spoiler hath been hither; O! would the maiden first had died,— The fairest rose must wither! The tender flow’ret blooms apace, But chilling winds blow o’er; It fades unheeded, and its place Shall never know it more.