Classic Poem

The Spring will come, but ah! will She? —
The girl that B OUGHTON promised me? —
My Bella, who he said should go,
In fitting tint across the snow!
Yet why, forsooth, shall I complain,
Since this my loss is others' gain; —
Since B OUGHTON , even now, perhaps,
Is painting frows in Friesland caps;
Or puts, maybe, the final touch
To some fresh Lovelace in Low Dutch;
Or else he makes the world more rich
By still one more New-England witch;
Or sees upon his canvass grow
Some priestess crowned with mistletoe.
Then, by and by, the crowd will rush
To praise these fruits of B OUGHTON'S brush,
And bless the artist who can blend
Unfading beauty with Ostend;
Or trace immortal truth behind
The furrowed face of humankind.
So why (I say) should I complain
Since this my loss is others' gain!
And yet, and yet, I fain would see
The girl that B OUGHTON promised me!