Classic Poem

He walks in vain by yonder garden-gate,
Where hollyhocks and tall carnations rise,
Sweet marjoram, and blooms that linger late,
And all the scented herbs that house-wives prize.

A late rose throws soft kisses to the breeze,
On petals sunrise-hued, like his love's cheeks;
He hears a child's voice in the apple-trees;
He starts! Ah, no; it is not she that speaks.

Gone! Lost! Her voice must ever be afar —
Those tones that made his fond heart fervent bound;
'T was not a voice as other voices are,
For blithesome hope and love were in the sound.

She was a damsel, dainty, fair, and fine;
A princess in the city's latest style;
And " darts " and " hearts " were not much in her line;
A little nonsense was: so, many a mile

Stretches between the lonely heart that's left,
With fading hedges, and the maiden fair,
One heart is wild with pain, of joy bereft,
The other's gay, and bright, and free from care.

A summer season and a wounded heart —
A young man's heart that suff'ring makes its moan —
Alas! that reason and true love should part;
" Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne. "

And Cupid sneered, for Cupid's young no more,
And in my face he puffed his cigarette;
" Drop sentiment, — it's such an awful bore;
She has forgotten, he will soon forget! "