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."