< Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 132.djvu
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322

CUPID SCHOOLED, ETC.

CUPID SCHOOLED.

I.

When she was as gay as a linnet,

⁠And I was as fresh as a lark,
Never a day but some minute
⁠We met betwixt dawning and dark.

II.

"Katie, and when shall we marry?"

⁠"Marry?" she said, with a sigh, —
"That's cake and ribbons on Monday,
⁠And sorrow ere Saturday's by.

III.

"You are as lean as a lizard,

⁠I am as poor as a mouse;
Nothing per annum, paid quarterly,
⁠Hardly finds rent for a house.

IV.

"'Love and a crust in a cottage,'

⁠Capital! just for a pair:
What if the hut should grow populous?
⁠How would the populace fare?

V.

"Oh, ay! the uncle you reckon on, —

⁠Gouty, and rich, and unwed, —
Dick! they wait ill, says the adage, who
⁠Wait for the shoes of the dead.

VI.

"Ah! if I loved you, I'd risk it!

⁠That's what you're thinking, I guess: —
Why, I would risk it to-morrow,
⁠Dick, if I cared for you less!

VII.

"Love's apt to fly out at window

⁠When Poverty looks in at door:
Rather I'd die than help banish him,
⁠Dick, just by keeping you poor.

VIII.

"Kiss me! you'll look in on Sunday?

⁠Won't my new bonnet be brave?
June at its longest and leafiest —
⁠My! what a ramble we'll have!

IX.

"Bye-bye! There's grandmother waiting

⁠Patient at home for her tea:
Dick, if you wouldn't wed both of us,
⁠You must be patient for me!"

X.

Showers, if they ruffle its foliage,

⁠Freshen the green of the grove;
True lovers' tiffs, said old Terence, are
⁠Only fresh fuel to love.

XI.

If I flung off in a passion —

⁠If she crept in for a cry —
Sunday came smiling and settled it,
⁠Katie was wiser than I.

XII.

Love's but a baby that, passionate,

⁠Cries to be mated, at birth:
Time isn't lost if it teaches you
⁠What a good woman is worth.

XIII.

What if the waiting was wearisome?

⁠What if the work-days were drear?
Time, the old thief, couldn't rob us of
⁠Fifty-two Sundays a year.

Blackwood's Magazine.

A SONG IN THE NIGHT.

I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
⁠From thine own hand;
The strength to bare it bravely
⁠Thou wilt command.
I am too weak for effort,
⁠So let me rest,
In hush of sweet submission,
⁠On thine own breast.

I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
⁠As proof indeed
That thou art watching closely
⁠My truest need;
That thou, my Good Physician,
⁠Art working still;
That all thine own good pleasure
⁠Thou wilt fulfil.

I take this pain, Lord Jesus!
⁠What thou dost choose,
The soul that really loves thee
⁠Will not refuse.
It is not for the first time
⁠I trust to-day!
For thee my heart hath never
⁠A trustless "Nay!"

I take this pain, Lord Jesus!
⁠But what beside?
'Tis no unmingled portion
⁠Thou dost provide.
In every hour of faintness,
⁠My cup runs o'er
With faithfulness and mercy,
⁠And love's sweet store.

I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
⁠As thine own gift,
And true though tremulous praises
⁠I now uplift.
I am too weak to sing them,
⁠But thou dost hear
The whisper from the pillow, —
⁠Thou art so near!

'Tis thy dear hand, O Saviour,
⁠That presseth sore,
The hand that bears the nail-prints
⁠Forevermore.
And now beneath its shadow,
⁠Hidden by thee,
The pressure only tells me
⁠Thou lovest me!

Frances Ridley Havergal.

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