Читать книгу Contraband, or A Losing Hazard - George J. Whyte-Melville - Страница 9

I stand on the brink of the river,

The river that runs to the sea;

The fears of a maid I forgive her,

And bid her come over to me.

She knows that her lover is waiting,

She's longing his darling to be,

And spring is the season of mating,

But—she dares not come over to thee!

I have jewels and gold without measure,

I have mountain and meadow and sea;

I have store of possessions and treasure,

All wasting and spoiling for thee.

Her heart is well worthy the winning,

But Love is a gift of the free,

And she vowed from the very beginning,

She'd never come over to thee.

Then lonely I'll wed with my sorrow—

Dead branch on a desolate tree—

My night hath no hope of a morrow,

Unless she come over to me.

Love takes no denial, and pity

Is love in a second degree,

So long ere I'd ended my ditty,

The maiden came over to me!

The two guests left No. 40 together, and parted at the end of the street; the junior betaking himself to his cigar, the senior to his whist. Each carried away with him a vague idea that he had spent an evening in Paradise. Which of the two had been made the greater fool of, it is not my province to decide; but I have some recollection of an old couplet in the West of England to the following effect:

"Young man's love soon blazeth and is done,

Old man's love burneth to the bone."