THE COQUETTE.

How can I be to blame?

Is it my fault I am fair?

I did not fashion my features,

Or brush the gold in my hair;

Because my eyes are so blue and bright,

Must I never look up from the ground,

But put out with my eyelids’ snow their light,

Lest some foolish heart they should wound?

How can I be in fault?

I am sure where hearts are so few,

It is difficult to discern

The diamonds of paste from the true;

I thought him like all the rest,

Skilful in playing his part;

As careful at cards or at chess,

As winning a woman's heart.

I am sure it is nothing wrong,

Nothing to think of — and yet

I know I lured him with glance and song,

Into my shining net;

Provokingly cold at first he seemed,

Like crystal to smiles and sighs,

But at last he felt the magic that gleamed

In my dreamy violet eyes.

And I led him on and on,

Farther, in truth, than I strove,

For he frightened me with the earnestness

And violence of his love;

These calm-eyed men deceive —

Had I known the man had a heart,

I would have paused, I would, I believe,

Have acted a different part.

In his royal indignation

He uttered some wholesome truth —

He almost roused the emotion

That died in my innocent youth;

Emotion that lived when life was new,

Ere that man my pathway crossed,

Who played me a game untrue,

When I staked all my love, and lost.

Oh for a saintly beauty,

What efforts my soul did make;

I thought all goodness and purity

Were possible for his sake;

The world seemed born anew, my life

Such holy meaning wore,

I fancy so fair and fond a dream

Never fell into ruins before.

He toyed with my fresh affection

As he breathed the country air,

To refresh him after a season

Of fashion, and falsehood, and glare;

Had he not slain my tenderness,

Had my life been more sweet,

I might have known nobler happiness

Than to humble men to my feet.

But now I love to lure them on,

To make them slaves to my gaze,

Like serfs to a conqueror's chariot,

Like moths to a candle-blaze.

I melt most royally time, the pearl,

And quaff the cup like a queen,

And forget in the dizzy tumult and whirl,

The woman I might have been.