“Far from her nest the lapwing cries away.”—Shakespeare.
“Come, write me some lines,” said my own darling Annie,
“You say that you love me, my beauty you praise;
And you make them by dozens for Laura or Fanny,
While I’m deemed unworthy to shine in your lays.
“From the land of the grape, to the hill of the heather,
Each troubadour poured forth his verses of yore,
While you, with the power to string rhyme together,
Have ne’er penned a stanza to her you adore.”
So spoke mine own Annie, and hurriedly hiding
Her head in my bosom, the tears ’gan to flow:
So I hastened to soothe her, her anger deriding,
And pressed with my lips her fair forehead of snow.
But no peace could be made, e’en by dint of embraces,
Till I owned my sad error again and again;
And when I’d dispelled sorrow’s lingering traces,
I made my defence in the following strain:—
“The lapwing, my love, is a sweet little bird,
Well known for the care that it takes of its young;
And if where the voice of this lapwing is heard
You seek for its nest, you are sure to be wrong.
“For by twitt’ring and screaming it seeks to beguile
The pursuer from where its heart’s treasure is laid;
And, were you a sage, you would see with a smile
How the smallest of creatures call guile to their aid!
“So I, full courageously, pour forth the praises
Of Laura or Fanny, those moths of an hour,
But you, my heart’s darling, I hide amidst mazes
More subtle than those of Fair Rosamond’s bower.
“For I own that I fear lest, by praising your charms,
I should e’er to the smallest suspicion give rise,
And some daring pursuer should tear from my arms
My own darling Annie, the light of my eyes!”
E. H. D.