I had a vacant dwelling — Where situated, I, As naught can serve the telling, Decline to specify;—
Enough‘ twas neither haunted, Entailed, nor out of date; I put up “Tenant Wanted,” And left the rest to Fate.
Then, Rose, you passed the window,— I see you passing yet,— Ah, what could I within do, When, Rose, our glances met!
You snared me, Rose, with ribbons, Your rose-mouth made me thrall, Brief — briefer far than Gibbon's, Was my “Decline and Fall.”
I heard the summons spoken That all hear — king and clown: You smiled — the ice was broken; You stopped — the bill was down.
How blind we are! It never Occurred to me to seek If you had come for ever, Or only for a week.
The words your voice neglected, Seemed written in your eyes; The thought your heart protected, Your cheek told, missal-wise;—
I read the rubric plainly As any Expert could; In short, we dreamed,— insanely, As only lovers should.
I broke the tall Oenone, That then my chambers graced, Because she seemed “too bony,” To suit your purist taste;
And you, without vexation, May certainly confess Some graceful approbation, Designed à mon adresse.
You liked me then, carina,— You liked me then, I think; For your sake gall had been a Mere tonic-cup to drink;
For your sake, bonds were trivial, The rack, a tour-de-force; And banishment, convivial,— You coming too, of course.
Then, Rose, a word in jest meant Would throw you in a state That no well-timed investment Could quite alleviate;
Beyond a Paris trousseau You prized my smile, I know, I, yours — ah, more than Rousseau The lip of d'Houdetot.
Then, Rose,— But why pursue it? When Fate begins to frown Best write the final “fuit,” And gulp the physic down.
And yet,— and yet, that only, The song should end with this:— You left me,— left me lonely, Rosa mutabilis!
Left me, with Time for Mentor, ( A dreary tête-à-tête! ) To pen my “Last Lament,” or Extemporize to Fate,
In blankest verse disclosing My bitterness of mind,— Which is, I learn, composing In cases of the kind.
No, Rose. Though you refuse me, Culture the pang prevents; “I am not made” — excuse me — “Of so slight elements;”
I leave to common lovers The hemlock or the hood; My rarer soul recovers In dreams of public good.
The Roses of this nation — Or so I understand From careful computation — Exceed the gross demand;
And, therefore, in civility To maids that can n't be matched, No man of sensibility Should linger unattached.
So, without further fashion — A modern Curtius, Plunging, from pure compassion, To aid the overplus,—
I sit down, sad — not daunted, And, in my weeds, begin A new card — “Tenant Wanted; Particulars within.”
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