MIGNONNE.

Whate'er thou dost thou'rt dear.

Uncertain troubles sanctify

That magic well-spring of the willing tear,

Thine eye.

Thy jealous fear,

With not the rustle of a rival near;

Thy careless disregard of all

My tenderest care;

Thy dumb despair

When thy keen wit my worship may construe

Into contempt of thy divinity;

They please me too!

But should it once befall

These accidental charms to disappear,

Leaving withal

Thy sometime self the same throughout the year,

So glowing, grave and shy,

Kind, talkative and dear

As now thou sitt'st to ply

The fireside tune

Of that neat engine deft at which thou sew'st

With fingers mild and foot like the new moon,

O, then what cross of any further fate

Could my content abate?

Forget, then, ( but I know

Thou canst not so,)

Thy customs of some praediluvian state.

I am no Bullfinch, fair my Butterfly,

That thou should'st try

Those zigzag courses, in the welkin clear;

Nor cruel Boy that, fledd'st thou straight

Or paused, mayhap

Might catch thee, for thy colours, with his cap.