COME OUT, LOVE. N. P. WILLIS.
Reading edition
Argument.—The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.
Come out, love—the night is enchanting! The moon hangs just over Broadway; The stars are all lighted and panting— (Hot weather up there, I dare say!) 'Tis seldom that "coolness" entices, And love is no better for chilling— But come up to Thompson's for ices, And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us? Mint juleps from City Hotel! A loafer is smoking before us— (A nasty cigar, by the smell!)O Woman! thou secret past knowing! Like lilacs that grow by the wall, You breathe every air that is going, Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor! Religion seems very ill-plann'd! For one day we list to the pastor, For six days we list to the band! The sermon may dwell on the future, The organ your pulses may calm— When—pest!—that remember'd cachucha Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter While goes a swift omnibus by! (Though sweet is I SCREAM* when the flutter Of fans shows thermometers high)— But if what I bawl, or I mutter, Falls into your ear but to die, Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter Is not more unhappy than I! *[Footnote: Query—Should this be Ice cream, or I scream?—Printer's Devil.]
THE WHITE CHIP HAT. N. P. WILLIS.
I pass'd her one day in a hurry, When late for the Post with a letter— I think near the corner of Murray— And up rose my heart as I met her! I ne'er saw a parasol handled So like to a duchess's doing— I ne'er saw a slighter foot sandal'd, Or so fit to exhale in the shoeing— Lovely thing!
Surprising!—one woman can dish us So many rare sweets up together! Tournure absolutely delicious— Chip hat without flower or feather— Well-gloved and enchantingly boddiced, Her waist like the cup of a lily— And an air, that, while daintily modest, Repell'd both the saucy and silly— Quite the thing!
For such a rare wonder you'll say, sir, There's reason in tearing one's tether— And, to see her again in Broadway, sir, Who would not be lavish of leather! I met her again, and as YOU know I'm sage as old Voltaire at Ferney— But I said a bad word—for my Juno Look'd sweet on a sneaking attorney— Horrid thing!
Away flies the dream I had nourish'd— My castles like mockery fall, sir! And, now, the fine airs that she flourish'd Seem varnish and crockery all, sir! The bright cup which angels might handle Turns earthy when finger'd by asses— And the star that "swaps" light with a candle, Thenceforth for a pennyworth passes!— Not the thing!