If he's not what Orlando should be, love, 55 My own Araminta, say No!'

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself Thompson' or
ner,'

My own Araminta, say. No!'

If he studies the news in the papers

60

Skin

While you are preparing the tea, If he talks of the damps or the vapors While moonlight lies soft on the sea, If he's sleepy while you are capricious, If he has not a musical 'Oh!' If he does not call Werther delicious,My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he ever sets foot in the City

Among the stockbrokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity,

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses, If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses,My own Araminta, say 'No!'

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers,

65

70

75

80

85

If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,My own Araminta, say No!'

He must walk like a god of old story

Come down from the home of his rest; go He must smile — like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best; And oh! from its ivory portal

Like music his soft speech must flow! If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say No!'

Don't listen to tales of his bounty,

Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth;

95

100

But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe:
If he's only an excellent person,-
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

(1844)

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

I

I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, s I saw in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore-
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in
mine

With pulses that beat double. What I do 10
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when
I sue