yet something in the prospect so absorbed her,
she seemed quite drowned and dozing in a dream;
as if her own belov’d full moon still orb’d her,
lulling her fancy in some lunar scheme,
with lost lorenzo, may be, for its theme—
yet when lorenzo touch’d her on the shoulder,
she started up with an abortive scream,
[pg 327]
as if some midnight ghost, from regions colder,
had come within his bony arms to fold her.
“lorenzo!” “ellen!” then came “sir!” and “madam!”
they tried to speak, but hammer’d at each word,
as if it were a flint for great mac adam:
such broken english never else was heard,
for like an aspen leaf each nerve was stirr’d,
a chilly tremor thrill’d them through and through,
their efforts to be stiff were quite absurd,
they shook like jellies made without a due
and proper share of common joiner’s glue.
“ellen! i’m come—to bid you—fare—farewell!”
they thus began to fight their verbal duel;
“since some more hap—hap—happy man must dwell—”
“alas—loren—lorenzo!—cru—cru—cruel!”
for so they split their words like grits for gruel.
at last the lover, as he long had plann’d,
drew out that once inestimable jewel,
her portrait, which was erst so fondly scann’d,
and thrust poor ellen’s face into her hand.
“there—take it, madam—take it back, i crave,
the face of one—but i must now forget her,
bestow it on whatever hapless slave
your art has last enticed into your fetter—
and there are your epistles—there! each letter!
i wish no record of your vow’s infractions,
send them to south—or children—you had better—
they will be novelties—rare benefactions!
to shine in philosophical transactions!
“take them—pray take them—i resign them quite!
and there’s the glove you gave me leave to steal—
[pg 328]
and there’s the handkerchief, so pure and white,
once sanctified by tears, when miss o’neill—
but no—you did not—cannot—do not feel
a juliet’s faith, that time could only harden!
fool that i was, in my mistaken zeal!
i should have led you,—by your leave and pardon—
to bartley’s orrery, not covent garden!”
