Poems, second period | Page 8

this d----d fellow wants to print!
Thy
wife--howe'er she slight the vows--
Respects, at least, the name of
spouse;
But mine to regions far too high
For that terrestrial name is
carried;
My wife's "The famous Ninon!"--I
"The gentleman that
Ninon married!"

It galls you that you scarce are able
To stake a florin at the table--

Confront the pit, or join the walk,
But straight all tongues begin to
talk!
O that such luck could me befall,
Just to be talked about at all!

Behold me dwindling in my nook,
Edged at her left,--and not a
look!
A sort of rushlight of a life,
Put out by that great orb--my
wife!
Scarce is the morning gray--before
Postman and porter crowd the
door;
No premier has so dear a levee--
She finds the mail-bag half
its trade;
My God--the parcels are so heavy!
And not a parcel
carriage-paid!
But then--the truth must be confessed--
They're all so
charmingly addressed:
Whate'er they cost, they well requite her--

"To Madame Blank, the famous writer!"
Poor thing, she sleeps so
soft! and yet
'Twere worth my life to spare her slumber;

"Madame--from Jena--the Gazette--
The Berlin Journal--the last
number!"
Sudden she wakes; those eyes of blue
(Sweet eyes!) fall
straight--on the Review!
I by her side--all undetected,
While those
cursed columns are inspected;
Loud squall the children overhead,

Still she reads on, till all is read:
At last she lays that darling by,

And asks--"What makes the baby cry?"
Already now the toilet's care
Claims from her couch the restless fair;

The toilet's care!--the glass has won
Just half a glance, and all is
done!
A snappish--pettish word or so
Warns the poor maid 'tis time
to go:--
Not at her toilet wait the Graces
Uncombed Erynnys takes
their places;
So great a mind expands its scope
Far from the mean
details of--soap!
Now roll the coach-wheels to the muster--
Now round my muse her
votaries cluster;

Spruce Abbe Millefleurs--Baron Herman--
The
English Lord, who don't know German,--
But all uncommonly well
read
From matchless A to deathless Z!
Sneaks in the corner, shy
and small,
A thing which men the husband call!
While every fop
with flattery fires her,
Swears with what passion he admires her.--


"'Passion!' 'admire!' and still you're dumb?"
Lord bless your soul, the
worst's to come:--
I'm forced to bow, as I'm a sinner,--
And hope--the rogue will stay to
dinner!
But oh, at dinner!--there's the sting;
I see my cellar on the
wing!
You know if Burgundy is dear?--
Mine once emerged three
times a year;--
And now to wash these learned throttles,
In dozens
disappear the bottles;
They well must drink who well do eat
(I've
sunk a capital on meat).
Her immortality, I fear, a
Death-blow will
prove to my Madeira;
It has given, alas! a mortal shock
To that old
friend--my Steinberg hock! [13]
If Faust had really any hand
In printing, I can understand
The fate
which legends more than hint;--
The devil take all hands that print!
And what my thanks for all?--a pout--
Sour looks--deep sighs; but
what about?
About! O, that I well divine--
That such a pearl should
fall to swine--
That such a literary ruby
Should grace the finger of a
booby!
Spring comes;--behold, sweet mead and lea
Nature's green splendor
tapestries o'er;
Fresh blooms the flower, and buds the tree;
Larks
sing--the woodland wakes once more.
The woodland wakes--but not
for her!
From Nature's self the charm has flown;
No more the
Spring of earth can stir
The fond remembrance of our own!
The
sweetest bird upon the bough
Has not one note of music now;
And,
oh! how dull the grove's soft shade,
Where once--(as lovers then)--we
strayed!
The nightingales have got no learning--
Dull
creatures--how can they inspire her?
The lilies are so undiscerning,

They never say--"how they admire her!"
In all this jubilee of being,

Some subject for a point she's seeing--

Some epigram--(to be impartial,
Well turned)--there may be worse in
Martial!

But, hark! the goddess stoops to reason:--
"The country now is quite
in season,
I'll go!"--"What! to our country seat?"
"No!--Travelling
will be such a treat;
Pyrmont's extremely full, I hear;
But Carlsbad's
quite the rage this year!"
Oh yes, she loves the rural Graces;
Nature
is gay--in watering-places!
Those pleasant spas--our reigning
passion--
Where learned Dons meet folks of fashion;
Where--each
with each illustrious soul
Familiar as in Charon's boat,
All sorts of
fame sit cheek-by-jowl,
Pearls in that string--the table d'hote!

Where dames whom man has injured--fly,
To heal their wounds or to
efface, them;
While others, with the waters, try
A course of
flirting,--just to brace them!
Well, there (O man, how light thy woes
Compared with mine--thou
need'st must see!)
My wife, undaunted, greatly goes--
And leaves
the orphans (seven!!!) to me!
O, wherefore art thou flown so soon,
Thou first fair year--Love's
honeymoon!
All, dream too exquisite for life!
Home's goddess--in
the name of wife!
Reared by each grace--yet but to be
Man's
household Anadyomene!
With mind from which the sunbeams fall,

Rejoice while pervading all;
Frank in the temper pleased to please--

Soft in the feeling waked with ease.
So broke, as native of the skies,

The heart-enthraller on my eyes;
So saw I, like a morn of May,

The playmate given to glad my way;
With eyes that more than lips
bespoke,
Eyes whence--sweet words--"I love thee!" broke!
So--Ah,
what transports then were mine!
I led the bride before the shrine!

And saw the future years revealed,
Glassed on my hope--one
blooming field!
More wide, and widening more, were given

The
angel-gates