Janet

I see her portrait hanging there,
Her face, but only half as fair,
And while I scan it,
Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met--
She smiles. I never can forget
The smile of Janet.

A matchless grace of head and hand,
Can Art pourtray an air more grand?
It cannot--can it?
And then the brow, the lips, the eyes--
You look as if you could despise
Devotion, Janet.

I knew her as a child, and said
She ought to have inhabited
A brighter planet:
Some seem more meet for angel wings
Than Mother Nature's apron strings,--
And so did Janet.

She grew in beauty, and in pride,
Her waist was slim, and once I tried,
In sport, to span it,
At Church, with only this result,
They threatened with quicunque vult
Both me and Janet.

She fairer grew, till Love became
In me a very ardent flame,
With Faith to fan it:
Alas, I played the fool, and she ...
The fault of both lay much with me,
But more with Janet.

For Janet chose a cruel part,--
How many win a tender heart
And then trepan it!
She left my bark to swim or sink,
Nor seemed to care--and yet, I think,
You liked me, Janet.

The old old tale! you know the rest--
The heart that slumbered in her breast
Was soft as granite:
Who breaks a heart, and then omits
To gather up its broken bits,
Is heartless, Janet.

I'm wiser now--for when I curse
My Fate, a voice cries, "Bad or worse
You must not ban it:
Take comfort, you are quits, for if
You mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff,
Why so does Janet."