This poem may well have been written about my own Maternal Grandmother
Was ninety and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,--
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and coquette
Falbala;
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love,--
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?--
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, Come."
What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
That good-for nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks (as white as Snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow;
By and by
That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:--
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit--
Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropped away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was "Thy
Will be done."
I travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,--
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.
I'm fain to meet you there,--
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
Thatthe better it must please
Grandpapa.
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