Classic Poem

I.

The hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted trees
That late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze;
The strangers and cousins and every one flown,
While we sit happy-hearted — together — alone.

II.

Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair,
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair;
Papa with his farming is busy to-day,
And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this way.

III.

The girls are gone — are they not? — into town,
To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau , down;
Ah! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette —
Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet!

IV.

You're not — do you say? — just remember last night,
You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your knight;
Poor lad! if he loved you — but no, darling! no,
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so.

V.

The painters are raving of light and of shade,
And Harry, the poet, of lake, hill, and glade;
While the light of your eye, and your soft wavy form
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm.

VI.

The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand,
But, you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your hand
And say what you will of the grey Christmas sky,
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's grey eye.

VII.

Be quiet, and sing me " The Bonny Cuckoo, "
For it bids us the summer and winter love through, —
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shews
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose.

VIII.

My Kate! I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft,
And your cheek flushes wilder from kissing so oft,
For town or for country, for mountains or farms,
What care I? — My darling's entwined in my arms.