Fringilla

Oh agony, despair, and woe!
Oh two-edged sword to us come!
To Blundell's must the body go,
While the heart remains at Buscombe.

All breakfast time, how glum we looked!
Our tears were threatening dribblets;
Too truly had our goose been cooked,
To leave us e'en our giblets.

Sweet Charlotte, did you share the thrill,
The pang; no throat may utter,
And strive an aching void to fill
With heartless toast and butter?

And were you sad, bright Caroline,
Although you never said so?
You did cast down your lovely eyne,
And you crumbled up your bread so!

But the Vicar's views were more sublime,
As he asked in all simplicity,
"My youthful friends, what is the prime
Of all mundane felicity?"

My answer, though it sounded cool,
Was given with trepidation—
"To stay at home, and send to school
The rising generation."

A gentle smile flits o'er his lip,
He eyes me with benignity;
He yearns to offer goodly tip,
Yet fears to wound my dignity.

True benefactor, be not shy,
Thou seest a humble fellow,
Thy noble impulse gratify—.
My stars, if it isn't yellow!

But time is over, and above,
To end this charming visit;
And must we part my own true love?
Though I am not sure, which is it.

Sweet Charlotte lingered in the shade,
Most gentle of all houris;
Bright Carry in the lobby played
With a pair of polished cowries.

She showed me how alike they were,
So Heaven had pleased to make them.
Though fortune might divide the pair,
She ne'er could separate them.

I blushed, and stammered at her touch,
I feared to beg for either;
My heart was in my mouth so much,
I could say "Goodbye" to neither.

Two strings are wise for every bow,
To meet the change of weather;
And Cupid's shafts give softer blow,
When two are tied together.

Oh, Charlotte sweet, and Carry bright,
My whole, or double-half love,
Let no maturer wisdom slight
A simple tale of calf-love.

A blessing on the maiden grace,
That beautifies the real,
To make the world a fairer place,
And lift the low ideal!

If one, or both, by any chance,
Behold what I confess here,
Make auld lang syne of young romance,
By sending your address here.

And answer—as I trust you can,
When time is flying faster,
That he hath served you better than
Your humble poetaster.

Postscript (a Fact)
This have they done—and oh, by Jove,
Not altered by a fraction!
If then they were too sweet to love,
What are they now? Distraction.

Of course they must be ever young;
How could I be so stupid?
Time fell in love with both, and flung
His calendar to Cupid!

TO FAME

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