Part 4 — A NICE CORRESPONDENT
Reading edition
"There are plenty of roses" (the patriarch speaks) "Alas not for me, on your lips and your cheeks; Fair maiden rose-laden enough and to spare, Spare, spare me that rose that you wear in your hair."
The glow and the glory are plighted To darkness, for evening is come; The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. I'm alone, for the others have flitted To dine with a neighbor at Kew: Alone, but I'm not to be pitied— I'm thinking of you!
I wish you were here! Were I duller Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; I am dressed in your favorite color— Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! I am wearing my lazuli necklace, The necklace you fastened askew! Was there ever so rude or so reckless A Darling as you?
I want you to come and pass sentence On two or three books with a plot; Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? I am reading Sir Waverley Scott. That story of Edgar and Lucy, How thrilling, romantic, and true! The Master (his bride was a goosey!) Reminds me of you.
They tell me Cockaigne has been crowning A Poet whose garland endures;— It was you that first told me of Browning,— That stupid old Browning of yours! His vogue and his verve are alarming, I'm anxious to give him his due; But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming A Poet as you!
I heard how you shot at The Beeches, I saw how you rode Chanticleer, I have read the report of your speeches, And echoed the echoing cheer. There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking, Dear Fred, I believe it, I do! Small marvel that Folly is making Her Idol of you!
Alas for the World, and its dearly Bought triumph,—its fugitive bliss; Sometimes I half wish I were merely A plain or a penniless Miss; But, perhaps, one is blest with "a measure Of pelf," and I'm not sorry, too, That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, My Darling, to you!
Your whim is for frolic and fashion, Your taste is for letters and art;— This rhyme is the commonplace passion That glows in a fond woman's heart: Lay it by in some sacred deposit For relics—we all have a few! Love, some day they'll print it, because it Was written to You.
Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]