How bravely when the time to part Came with the wanton season’s close,été Though nature with our mutual art Had mingled more than either chose, We smothered Love, upon the verge Of folly, in one last embrace, And buried him without a dirge, And turned, and left his resting-place.
Yet often (tell me what it means!) His spirit steals upon me here, Far, far away from all the scenes His little lifetime held so dear; He comes: I hear a mystic strain In which some tender memory lies; I dally with your hair again; I catch the gleam of violet eyes.
Ah, Helen! how have matters been Since those rude obsequies, with you? Say, is my partner in the sin A sharer of the penance too? Again the vision’s at my side: I drop my head upon my breast, And wonder if he really died, And why his spirit will not rest. _Edmund Clarence Stedman._
OUR great-great-grandpapas had schooled Your fancies, Lita, were you born In days when Cotton Mather ruled And damask petticoats were worn! Your pretty ways, your mocking air, Had passed, mayhap, for Satan’s wiles— As fraught with danger, then and there, To you, as now to us your smiles.
Why not? Were inquest to begin, The tokens are not far to seek: _Item_—the dimple of your chin; _Item_—that freckle on your cheek. Grace shield his simple soul from harm Who enters yon flirtation niche, Or trusts in whispered counter-charm, Alone with such a parlous witch!
Your fan a wand is, in disguise; It conjures, and we straight are drawn Within a witches’ Paradise Of music, germans, roses, lawn. So through the season, where you go, All else than Lita men forget: One needs no second-sight to know That sorcery is rampant yet.
Now, since the bars no more await Fair maids that practise sable arts, Take heed, while I pronounce the fate Of her who thus ensnares men’s hearts: In time you shall a wizard meet With spells more potent than your own, And you shall know your master, Sweet, And for these witcheries atone.
For you at his behest shall wear A veil, and seek with him the church, And at the altar rail forswear The craft that left you in the lurch; But oft thereafter, musing long, With smile and sigh, and conscience-twitch, You shall too late confess the wrong— A captive and repentant witch. _Edmund Clarence Stedman._