Ad Rosam.

"Mitte sectari ROSA quo locorum     Sera moretur."     --Hor. i. 38.     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I,     As naught can serve the telling,     Decline to specify;--     Enough 'twas neither haunted,     Entailed, nor out of date;     I put up "Tenant Wanted,"     And left the rest to Fate.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 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 tte--tte!)     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'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."