That Young America had better ‘tarry
At Jericho until his beard was grown,’
And like his eagle wear upon his wings
Feathers, before he proffered wedding-rings;
That purpling grapes looked lovely on their vines,
But she preferred them perfected in wines;
That on my cheek the down was fair to see,
But she admired the full-blown favoris,
And rather liked in men a modest pride
Of mustache—if artistically dyed.”
She then, dismissing me in queenly state,
Locked of her Eden the unfeeling gate,
And I—a victim to Love’s cruel dart,
Went—to the Opera—with a broken heart!
Along thy peopled solitude—Broadway!
I walked, a desolate man, day after day,
With downcast eyes and melancholy brow,
Until a lady’s letter asked me why
I passed her ladyship without a bow;
To which I sent the following reply,
My earliest-born attempt at poetry:
“The heart hath sorrows of its own,
And griefs it veils from all,
And tears, close-hidden from the world,
In solitude will fall;
