First Love

YES, I know that you once were my lover,

But that sort of thing has an end,

And though love and its transports are over,

You know you can still be--my friend:

I was young, too, and foolish, remember;

(Did you ever hear John Hardy sing?)

It was then, the fifteenth of November,

And this is the end of the spring!

You complain that you are not well-treated

By my suddenly altering so;

Can I help it?--you're very conceited,

If you think yourself equal to Joe.

Don't kneel at my feet, I implore you;

Don't write on the drawings you bring;

Don't ask me to say, "I adore you,"

For, indeed, it is now no such thing.

I confess, when at Bognor we parted,

I swore that I worshipped you then--

That I was a maid broken-hearted,

And you the most charming of men.

I confess, when I read your first letter,

I blotted your name with a tear--

But, oh! I was young--knew no better,

Could I tell that I'd meet Hardy here?

How dull you are grown! how you worry,

Repeating my vows to be true--

If I said so, I told you a story,

For I love Hardy better than you!

Yes! my fond heart has fixed on another,

(I sigh so whenever he's gone,)

I shall always love you--as a brother,

But my heart is John Hardy's alone.