LIKE summer skies her eyes of blue,
Streakt sunset are her locks of yellow;
And that I love her, must be true.
She only says, "You foolish fellow!"
I'd pour my free blood out for her
Were it the proper thing to pour it;
I love to madness, I aver;
And, oh! her sketching, I adore it!
Her Kensington embroidery
Would quite bereave a man of reason;
She sings like Gerster or Patti;
She waltzes in and out of season.
She treats her lovers, every one,
To winning smiles or gestures haughty;
She plays Chopin and Mendelssohn
Like mad on the piano-forte.
A month ago those words I wrote,
Before I dreamt what ruin boded,
Or that the fair one wished to vote, -
Alas! how were my hopes exploded!
I walk'd with her, I danc'd, I rode,
On bended knee I begg'd her choose me :
She droopt her eyelids a-la-mode, -
"I have a mission, please excuse me."
F.
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Princeton, 11; Harvard, 2.
