THE SEPARATION.

“Lorsque l’on aime comme il faut Le moindre éloignement nous tue Et ce, dont on chérit la vue Ne reviènt jamais assez tôt.”—Moliere.

He’s gone, dear Fanny!—gone at last— We’ve said good-bye—and all is over; ’Twas a gay dream—but it is past— Next Tuesday he will sail from Dover. Well! gentle waves be round his prow! But tear and prayer alike are idle; Oh! who shall fill my album now? And who shall hold my pony’s bridle? Last night he left us after tea— I never thought he’d leave us—never; He was so pleasant, was’nt he? Papa, too, said he was so clever. And, Fanny, you’ll be glad to hear— That little boy that looked so yellow, Whose eyes were so like his—my dear, Is a poor little orphan fellow! That odious Miss Lucretia Browne, Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles, Is always running through the town, And circulating tracts—and libels; Because he never danced with her, Told dear Mamma such horrid scandal About his moral character, For stooping, just to tie a sandal! She said he went to fights and fairs— That always gives Papa the fidgets; She said he did not know his prayers— He’s every Sunday at St. Bridget’s! She said he squeezed one’s waist and hands Whene’er he waltzed—a plague upon her— I danced with him at Lady Eland’s— He never squeezed me—’pon my honour! His regiment have got the route, (They came down here to quell the riot, And now—what can they be about, The stupid people are so quiet:)— They say it is to India, too, If there I’m sure he’ll get the liver!— And should he bathe—he used to do— They’ve crocodiles in every river. There may be bright eyes there—and then! (I’m sure I love him like a brother;) His lute will soon be strung again, His heart will soon beat for another. I know him well! he is not false— But when the song he loves is playing— Or after he has danced a waltz— He never knows what he is saying. I know ’twas wrong—’twas very wrong— To listen to his wild romancing; Last night I danced with him too long,— One’s always giddy after dancing: But when he begged me so to sing, And when he sighed, and asked me, “Would I?” And when he took my turquoise ring, I’m sure I could not help it, could I? Papa was lecturing the girls, And talked of settlements and rentals;— I wore a white-lace frock—and pearls— He looked so well in regimentals! And just before we came away, While we were waiting for the carriage, I heard him, not quite plainly, say Something of Blacksmiths—and of marriage. He promised, if he could get leave, He’d soon come back—I wonder can he?— Lord Hill is very strict, I b’lieve;— (What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny?) He said he wished we ne’er had met, I answered—it was lovely weather!— And then he bade me not forget The pleasant days we’d passed together. He’s gone—and other lips may weave A stronger spell than mine to bind him; But bid him, if he loves me, leave Those rhymes he made me love, behind him; Tell him I know those waywards strings Not always sound to mirthful measures; But sighs are sometimes pleasant things, And tears from those we love are treasures. Tell him to leave off drinking wine,— Tell him to break himself off smoking,— Tell him to go to bed at nine,— His hours are really quite provoking. Tell him I hope he won’t get fat,— Tell him to act with due reflection;— Tell him to wear a broad-leaf hat, Or else he’ll ruin his complexion. Tell him I am so ill to-day,— Perhaps to-morrow I’ll be better;—- Tell him before he goes away To write me a consoling letter: Tell him to send me down that song He said he loved the best of any,— Tell him I’m sure I can’t live long,— And—bid him love me,—won’t you, Fanny?