EVENING threw soberer hue
Over the blue sky, and the few
Poplars that grew just in the view
Of the hall of Sir Hugo de Wynkle:
“Answer me true,” pleaded Sir Hugh,
(Striving to woo no matter who,)
“What shall I do, Lady, for you?
’Twill be done, ere your eye may twinkle.
Shall I borrow the wand of a Moorish enchanter,
And bid a decanter contain the Levant, or
The brass from the face of a Mormonite ranter?
Shall I go for the mule of the Spanish Infantar—
(That _r_, for the sake of the line, we must grant her,)—
And race with the foul fiend, and beat in a canter,
Like that first of equestrians Tam o’ Shanter?
I talk not mere banter—say not that I can’t, or
By this _my first_—(a Virginia planter
Sold it me to kill rats)—I will die instanter.”
The Lady bended her ivory neck, and
Whispered mournfully, “Go for—_my second_.”
She said, and the red from Sir Hugh’s cheek fled,
And “Nay,” did he say, as he stalked away
The fiercest of injured men:
“Twice have I humbled my haughty soul,
And on bended knee I have pressed _my whole_—
But I never will press it again!”