Ad Rosam.

By Henry Austin Dobson

"Mitte sectari ROSA quo locorum Sera moretur." --Hor. i. 38. 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Where situated, I, As naught can serve the telling, Decline to specify;-- Enough 'twas neither haunted, Entailed, nor out of date; I put up "Tenant Wanted," And left the rest to Fate.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 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 tte--tte!) 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."