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Where Situated, I, As Naught Can Serve The Telling, Decline To Specify;-- Enough 'Twas Neither Haunted, Entailed, Nor Out Of Date; I Put Up "Tenant Wanted," And Left The Rest To Fate.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 T'Te-'-T'Te!) 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."