AD ROSAM.

I had a vacant dwelling —

Where situated, I,

As naught can serve the telling,

Decline to specify;—

Enough‘ twas neither haunted,

Entailed, nor out of date;

I put up “Tenant Wanted,”

And left the rest to Fate.

Then, Rose, you passed the window,—

I see you passing yet,—

Ah, what could I within do,

When, Rose, our glances met!

You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,

Your rose-mouth made me thrall,

Brief — briefer far than Gibbon's,

Was my “Decline and Fall.”

I heard the summons spoken

That all hear — king and clown:

You smiled — the ice was broken;

You stopped — the bill was down.

How blind we are! It never

Occurred to me to seek

If you had come for ever,

Or only for a week.

The words your voice neglected,

Seemed written in your eyes;

The thought your heart protected,

Your cheek told, missal-wise;—

I read the rubric plainly

As any Expert could;

In short, we dreamed,— insanely,

As only lovers should.

I broke the tall Oenone,

That then my chambers graced,

Because she seemed “too bony,”

To suit your purist taste;

And you, without vexation,

May certainly confess

Some graceful approbation,

Designed à mon adresse.

You liked me then, carina,—

You liked me then, I think;

For your sake gall had been a

Mere tonic-cup to drink;

For your sake, bonds were trivial,

The rack, a tour-de-force;

And banishment, convivial,—

You coming too, of course.

Then, Rose, a word in jest meant

Would throw you in a state

That no well-timed investment

Could quite alleviate;

Beyond a Paris trousseau

You prized my smile, I know,

I, yours — ah, more than Rousseau

The lip of d'Houdetot.

Then, Rose,— But why pursue it?

When Fate begins to frown

Best write the final “fuit,”

And gulp the physic down.

And yet,— and yet, that only,

The song should end with this:—

You left me,— left me lonely,

Rosa mutabilis!

Left me, with Time for Mentor,

( A dreary tête-à-tête! )

To pen my “Last Lament,” or

Extemporize to Fate,

In blankest verse disclosing

My bitterness of mind,—

Which is, I learn, composing

In cases of the kind.

No, Rose. Though you refuse me,

Culture the pang prevents;

“I am not made” — excuse me —

“Of so slight elements;”

I leave to common lovers

The hemlock or the hood;

My rarer soul recovers

In dreams of public good.

The Roses of this nation —

Or so I understand

From careful computation —

Exceed the gross demand;

And, therefore, in civility

To maids that can n't be matched,

No man of sensibility

Should linger unattached.

So, without further fashion —

A modern Curtius,

Plunging, from pure compassion,

To aid the overplus,—

I sit down, sad — not daunted,

And, in my weeds, begin

A new card — “Tenant Wanted;

Particulars within.”