’Tis I would be The Laureate bold, With my butt of sherry To keep me merry, And nothing to do but to pocket my gold!
MEN, dying, make their wills, but wives Escape a work so sad; Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had? _John Godfrey Saxe._
I SAW her last night at a party (The elegant party at Mead’s), And looking remarkably hearty For a widow so young in her weeds; Yet I know she was suffering sorrow Too deep for the tongue to express-- Or why had she chosen to borrow So much from the language of dress?
Her shawl was as sable as night; And her gloves were as dark as her shawl; And her jewels--that flashed in the light-- Were black as a funeral pall; Her robe had the hue of the rest, (How nicely it fitted her shape!) And the grief that was heaving her breast Boiled over in billows of crape!
What tears of vicarious woe, That else might have sullied her face, Were kindly permitted to flow In ripples of ebony lace While even her fan, in its play, Had quite a lugubrious scope, And seemed to be waving away The ghost of the angel of Hope!
Yet rich as the robes of a queen Was the sombre apparel she wore; I’m certain I never had seen Such a sumptuous sorrow before; And I couldn’t help thinking the beauty, In mourning the loved and the lost, Was doing her conjugal duty Altogether regardless of cost!
One surely would say a devotion Performed at so vast an expense Betrayed an excess of emotion That was really something immense; And yet, as I viewed, at my leisure, Those tokens of tender regard, I thought: It is scarce without measure-- The sorrow that goes by the yard!
Ah, grief is a curious passion; And yours--I am sorely afraid The very next phase of the fashion Will find it beginning to fade; Though dark are the shadows of grief, The morning will follow the night; Half-tints will betoken relief, Till joy shall be symboled in white!
Ah, well! it were idle to quarrel With fashion, or aught she may do; And so I conclude with a moral And metaphor--warranted new: When measles come handsomely out, The patient is safest, they say; And the sorrow is mildest, no doubt, That works in a similar way! _John Godfrey Saxe._
“THERE is no God,” the wicked saith, “And truly it’s a blessing, For what he might have done with us It’s better only guessing.”