Page 26 - Poetry-Romance

Whilst far off in the distance some poor girl
Sang, with her love-lorn ringlets out of curl,
Some trashy stuff of love and love’s distress.
I could see nothing, and could hear still less.
Still, I applauded, for politeness’ sake.
Next a dress-coat of fashionable make
Came forward and began. It clad a poet.
That’s the last mode in Paris. Did you know it?
Your host or hostess, after dinner, chooses
To serve you up some effort of the Muses,
Recited with vim, gestures, and by-play
By some one borrowed from the great Français.
I blush to write it—poems, you must know,
All make me sleepy; and it was so now.
For as I listened to the distant drone
Of the smooth lines, I felt my eyelids droop down
And a strange torpor I could not ignore
Came creeping o’er me.
“Heavens! suppose I snore!
Let me get out,” I cried, “or else—”
With that
I cast my eyes around to find my hat.
The console where I laid it down, alas!
Was now surrounded (not a mouse could pass)
By triple rows of ladies gaily dressed,
Who fanned and listened calmly, undistressed.
No man through that fair crowd could work his way.
Rank behind rank rose heads in bright array.
Diamonds were there, and flowers, and, lower still,
Such lovely shoulders! Not the smallest thrill
They raised in me. My thoughts were of my hat.
It lay beyond where all those ladies sat,
Under a candelabrum, shiny, bright,
Smooth as when last I brushed it, full in sight,
Whilst I, far off, with yearning glances tried
Whether I could not lure it to my side.
“Why may my hand not put thee on my head,
And quit this stifling room?” I fondly said.
“Respond, dear hat, to a magnetic throb.
Come, little darling; cleave this female mob.

~ 24 ~