But if those coy lashes Stir for whoso dashes Past the scented window in the fading light,été Close the lattice, sweetest; Darkness were discreetest; And, with bridle fleetest, I will gallop onwards, unattended through the night. _Alfred Austin._
TEACH you French? I will, my dear! Sit and con your lesson here. What did Adam say to Eve? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._
Don’t pronounce the last word long; Make it short to suit the song; Rhyme it to your flowing sleeve, _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.
Sleeve, I said, but what’s the harm If I really meant your arm? Mine shall twine it (by your leave), _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.
Learning French is full of slips; Do as I do with the lips; Here’s the right way, you perceive, _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.
French is always spoken best Breathing deeply from the chest; Darling, does your bosom heave? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._
Now, my dainty little sprite, Have I taught your lesson right? Then what pay shall I receive? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._
Will you think me overbold If I linger to be told Whether you yourself believe _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_.
Pretty pupil, when you say All this French to me to-day, Do you mean it, or deceive? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._
Tell me, may I understand, When I press your little hand, That our hearts together cleave? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._
Have you in your tresses room For some orange-buds to bloom? May I such a garland weave? _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._
Or, if I presume too much Teaching French by sense of touch, Grant me pardon and reprieve! _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre._
Sweetheart, no! you cannot go! Let me sit and hold you so; Adam did the same to Eve,— _Aimer, aimer; c’est à vivre_. _Theodore Tilton._
THE cunning hand that carved this face, A little helmeted Minerva— The hand, I say, ere Phidias wrought, Had lost its subtle skill and fervour.
Who was he? Was he glad or sad? Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he shaped this dainty head For some brown girl that Scorned his passion.
But he is dust: we may not know His happy or unhappy story: Nameless and dead these thousand years, His work outlives him—there’s his glory!
Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The thousand summers came and went, With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.