Classic Poem

I HAD a vacant dwelling —
Where situated, I,
As naught can serve the telling,
Decline to specify; —
Enough 'twas neither haunted,
Entailed, nor out of date;
I put up " Tenant Wanted, "
And left the rest to Fate.

Then, Rose, you passed the window, —
I see you passing yet, —
Ah, what could I within do,
When, Rose, our glances met!
You snared me, Rose, with ribbons,
Your rose-mouth made me thrall,
Brief — briefer far than Gibbon's,
Was my " Decline and Fall. "

I heard the summons spoken
That all hear — king and clown:
You smiled — the ice was broken;
You stopped — the bill was down.
How blind we are! It never
Occurred to me to seek
If you had come for ever,
Or only for a week.

The words your voice neglected,
Seemed written in your eyes;
The thought your heart protected,
Your cheek told, missal-wise; —
I read the rubric plainly
As any Expert could;
In short, we dreamed, — insanely,
As only lovers should.

I broke the tall oenone,
That then my chambers graced,
Because she seemed " too bony, "
To suit your purist taste;
And you, without vexation,
May certainly confess
Some graceful approbation,
Designed a mon adresse .

You liked me then, carina , —
You liked me then, I think;
For your sake gall had been a
Mere tonic-cup to drink;
For your sake, bonds were trivial,
The rack, a tour-de-force;
And banishment, convivial, —
You coming too, of course.

Then, Rose, a word in jest meant
Would throw you in a state
That no well-timed investment
Could quite alleviate;
Beyond a Paris trousseau
You prized my smile, I know,
I, yours — ah, more than Rousseau
The lip of d'Houdetot.

Then, Rose, — But why pursue it?
When Fate begins to frown
Best write the final " fuit , "
And gulp the physic down.
And yet, — and yet, that only,
The song should end with this: —
You left me, — left me lonely,
Rosa mutabilis!

Left me, with Time for Mentor,
(A dreary tête-a-tête! )
To pen my " Last Lament, " or
Extemporize to Fate,
In blankest verse disclosing
My bitterness of mind, —
Which is, I learn, composing
In cases of the kind.

No, Rose. Though you refuse me,
Culture the pang prevents;
" I am not made " — excuse me —
" Of so slight elements; "
I leave to common lovers
The hemlock or the hood;
My rarer soul recovers
In dreams of public good.

The Roses of this nation —
Or so I understand
From careful computation —
Exceed the gross demand;
And, therefore, in civility
To maids that can't be matched,
No man of sensibility
Should linger unattached.

So, without further fashion —
A modern Curtius,
Plunging, from pure compassion,
To aid the overplus, —
I sit down, sad — not daunted,
And, in my weeds, begin
A new card — " Tenant Wanted;
Particulars within. "