that great orb—my wife! Scarce is the morning gray—before Postman and porter crowd the door; No premier has so dear a levee— She finds the mail-bag half its trade; My God—the parcels are so heavy! And not a parcel carriage-paid! But then—the truth must be confessed— They're all so charmingly addressed: Whate'er they cost, they well requite her— "To Madame Blank, the famous writer!" Poor thing, she sleeps so soft! and yet 'Twere worth my life to spare her slumber; "Madame—from Jena—the Gazette— The Berlin Journal—the last number!" Sudden she wakes; those eyes of blue (Sweet eyes!) fall straight—on the Review! I by her side—all undetected, While those cursed columns are inspected; Loud squall the children overhead, Still she reads on, till all is read: At last she lays that darling by, And asks—"What makes the baby cry?" Already now the toilet's care Claims from her couch the restless fair; The toilet's care!—the glass has won Just half a glance, and all is done! A snappish—pettish word or so Warns the poor maid 'tis time to go:— Not at her toilet wait the Graces Uncombed Erynnys takes their places; So great a mind expands its scope Far from the mean details of—soap! Now roll the coach-wheels to the muster— Now round my muse her votaries cluster; Spruce Abbe Millefleurs—Baron Herman— The English Lord, who don't know German,— But all uncommonly well read From matchless A to deathless Z! Sneaks in the corner, shy and small, A thing which men the husband call! While every fop with flattery fires her, Swears with what passion he admires her.— "'Passion!' 'admire!' and still you're dumb?" Lord bless your soul, the worst's to come:— I'm forced to bow, as I'm a sinner,— And hope—the rogue will stay to dinner! But oh, at dinner!—there's the sting; I see my cellar on the wing! You know if Burgundy is dear?— Mine once emerged three times a year;— And now to wash these learned throttles, In dozens disappear the bottles; They well must drink who well do eat (I've sunk a capital on meat). Her immortality, I fear, a Death-blow will prove to my Madeira; It has given, alas! a mortal shock To that old friend—my Steinberg hock! 13 If Faust had really any hand In printing, I can understand The fate which legends more than hint;— The devil take all hands that print! And what my thanks for all?—a pout— Sour looks—deep sighs; but what about? About! O, that I well divine— That such a pearl should fall to swine— That such a literary ruby Should grace the finger of a booby! Spring comes;—behold, sweet mead and lea Nature's green splendor
Prev.
Back
Top