Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield
The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain,
Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.”
All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me,
I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear
You chose a most unlucky simile
To prove the truth of woman. To her place
The moon does rise—but with a different face
Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear
The poem read, before I can consent
To pass my judgment on the sentiment.”
All clamoured that the author was the man
To read the poem: and, with tones that said
More than the cutting, scornful words he read,
Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:
HER LOVE.
The sands upon the ocean side
That change about with every tide,
And never true to one abide,
A woman’s love I liken to.
The summer zephyrs, light and vain,
That sing the same alluring strain
To every grass blade on the plain—
A woman’s love is nothing more.
The sunshine of an April day
That comes to warm you with its ray,
But while you smile has flown away—
A woman’s love is like to this.
God made poor woman with no heart,
But gave her skill, and tact, and art,
And so she lives, and plays her part.
We must not blame, but pity her.
She leans to man—but just to hear
The praise he whispers in her ear,
Herself, not him, she holdeth dear—
Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.
To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs
The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts,
Then throws them lightly by and laughs,
