Dear Exile, I was pleased to get
Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton;
You know that you are all to "Pet,"
I feared that I was quite forgotten:
Mama, who scolds me when I mope,
Insists--and she is wise as gentle--
That I am still in love--I hope
That you are rather sentimental.
Perhaps you think a child should not
Be gay unless her slave is with her;
Of course you love old Rome, and, what
Is more, would like to coax me thither:
What! quit this dear delightful maze
Of calls and balls, to be intensely
Discomfited in fifty ways--
I like your confidence immensely!
Some girls who love to ride and race,
And live for dancing--like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place,
In spite of all the stupid ruins:
I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside those banks of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing--of which
Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer.
To see stone pines, and marble gods,
In garden alleys--red with roses--
The Perch where Pio Nono nods;
The Church where Raphael reposes.
Make pleasant _giros_--when we may;
Jump _stagionate_--where they're easy;
And play croquet--the Bruens say
There's turf behind the _Ludovisi_.
I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee
Says packing books is such a worry;
I'll bring my "Golden Treasury,"
Manzoni--and, of course, a "Murray;"
A TUPPER, whom you men despise;
A Dante--Auntie owns a quarto--
I'll try and buy a smaller size,
And read him on the _muro torto_.
But can I go? _La Madre_ thinks
It would be such an undertaking:--
I wish we could consult a sphynx;--
The thought alone has set her quaking.
Papa--we do not mind Papa--
Has got some "notice" of some "motion,"
And could not stay; but, why not,--Ah,
I've not the very slightest notion.
The Browns have come to stay a week,
They've brought the boys, I haven't thanked 'em,
For Baby _Grand_, and Baby _Pic_,
Are playing cricket in my sanctum:
Your Rover too affects my den,
And when I pat the dear old whelp, it ...
It makes me think of you, and then ...
And then I cry--I cannot help it.
Ah, yes--before you left me, ere
Our separation was impending,
These eyes had seldom shed a tear--
For mine was joy that knew no ending;
Yes, soon there came a change, too soon:
The first faint cloud that rose to grieve me
Was knowledge I possessed the boon,
And then a fear such bliss might leave me.
This strain is sad: yet, understand,
Your words have made my spirit better:
And when I first took pen in hand,
I meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull,--Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go--I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.
The sun now glances o'er the Park,
If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;
I think I've kissed your rhymes, for--hark!
My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter.
Your blessed words extinguish doubt,
A sudden breeze is gaily blowing,
And, hark! The minster bells ring out--
"She ought to go! Of course she's going."