Classic Poem

A REVERIE SUGGESTED BY THE NAME UPON A PANE

She then must once have looked, as I
Look now, across the level rye, —
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,
As now I see, the village green,
The bridge, and Walton"s river — she
Whose old-world name was " Dorothy."

The swallows must have twittered, too,
Above her head; the roses blew
Below, no doubt, — and, sure, the South
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth, —
That wistful mouth, which comes to me
Linked with her name of Dorothy.

What was she like? I picture her
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper; —
Soft, — pensive, — far too subtly graced
To suit the blunt bucolic taste,
Whose crude perception could but see
" Ma'am Fine-airs" in " Miss Dorothy."

How not? She loved, maybe, perfume,
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room; —
Perchance too candidly preferred
" Clarissa" to a gossip's word; —
And, for the rest, would seem to be
Or proud, or dull — this Dorothy.

Poor child! — with heart the down-lined nest
Of warmest instincts unconfest,
Soft, callow things that vaguely felt
The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,
But yet, by some obscure decree,
Unwinged from birth; — poor Dorothy!

Not less I dream her mute desire
To acred churl and booby squire,
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled
At " twice-told tales" of foxes killed; —
Now trembling when slow tongues grew free
'Twixt sport, and Port — and Dorothy!

'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find
Its evening landscape balmy-kind;
And here, where still her gentle name
Lives on the old green glass, would frame
Fond dreams of unfound harmony
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!

L ' ENVOI .

These last I spoke. Then Florence said,
Below me, — " Dreams? Delusions, Fred!"
Next, with a pause, — she bent the while
Over a rose, with roguish smile —
" But how disgusted, Sir, you'll be
To hear I scrawled that " Dorothy. " "