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1831–1884

ON THE BRINK.

Charles Stuart Calverley

I watch'd her as she stoop'd to pluck A wildflower in her hair to twine; And wish'd that it had been my luck To call her mine.

Anon I heard her rate with mad Mad words her babe within its cot; And felt particularly glad That it had not.

I knew ( such subtle brains have men ) That she was uttering what she should n't; And thought that I would chide, and then I thought I would n't:

Who could have gazed upon that face, Those pouting coral lips, and chided? A Rhadamanthus, in my place, Had done as I did:

For ire wherewith our bosoms glow Is chain'd there oft by Beauty's spell; And, more than that, I did not know The widow well.

So the harsh phrase pass'd unreproved. Still mute — ( O brothers, was it sin? ) - I drank, unutterably moved, Her beauty in:

And to myself I murmur'd low, As on her upturn'd face and dress The moonlight fell, “Would she say No, By chance, or Yes?”

She stood so calm, so like a ghost Betwixt me and that magic moon, That I already was almost A finish'd coon.

But when she caught adroitly up And soothed with smiles her little daughter; And gave it, if I'm right, a sup Of barley-water;

And, crooning still the strange sweet lore Which only mothers’ tongues can utter, Snow'd with deft hand the sugar o'er Its bread and butter;

And kiss'd it clingingly — ( Ah, why Do n't women do these things in private? ) - I felt that if I lost her, I Should not survive it:

And from my mouth the words nigh flew - The past, the future, I forgat‘ em: “Oh! if you'd kiss me as you do That thankless atom!”

But this thought came ere yet I spake, And froze the sentence on my lips: “They err, who marry wives that make Those little slips.”

It came like some familiar rhyme, Some copy to my boyhood set; And that's perhaps the reason I'm Unmarried yet.

Would she have own'd how pleased she was, And told her love with widow's pride? I never found out that, because I never tried.

Be kind to babes and beasts and birds: Hearts may be hard, though lips are coral; And angry words are angry words: And that's the moral.

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ON THE BRINK. · Charles Stuart Calverley · Poetry Cove