Of Hindoo widows burnt alive,
And how he'd fought the French with Clive;
He watched her cheek go red and pale—
The light and shadow of his tale—
And on her eyelid shining clear
The crystal candour of a tear.
Ah, gentle reader, need I tell
The story that you know so well—
Of tender looks and stifled sighs,
Of ardent vows and soft replies?
It is, I think, enough to say
They loved as lovers love to-day,
And in the way of lovers swore
That no one ever loved before.
For centuries may come and go,
But Love and Youth are always so.
Nor need I rend your hearts to tell
The passion of their sad farewell.
But he, a moment to beguile
The April sunshine of a smile,
Asked for her choice 'twixt hat and gown,
A gift to bring from London Town;
And she, although her cheeks were wet,
Was in a moment all coquette—
"Your English fashions would, I fear,
But ill become my homely sphere;
Besides, you know not how to choose;
Bring me instead a pair of shoes."
With leaden feet the days passed o'er
