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 have n'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.”
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