Walter Learned Poems

It is not here I best enjoy
The pleasure, that can never cloy,
Of idly roaming London town,
Where such familiar names look down
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To you, whose temperate pulses flow
With measured beat, serene and slow,
The even tenor of whose way
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The promise of these fragrant flowers,
The fruit that 'neath these blossoms lies
Once hung, they say, in Eden's bowers,
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Sullen and dull, in the September day,
On the bank of the river,
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'Twas as she slept that Cupid came,
His bow and arrows taking,
That she might feel his power in dreams
Who scorned his weapons waking.
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A dove lay caught in a fowler’s snare;
By cruel cords her wings were pressed,
Ruffled was all her plumage fair,
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Sweet sixteen is shy and cold,
Calls me 'sir,' and thinks me old;
Hears in am embarrassed way
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You say, when I kissed you, you are sure I must quite
Have forgotten myself. So I did; you are right.
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Her lips were so near
That--what else could I do?
You'll be angry, I fear.
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At Cato's Head in Russell Street
These leaves she sat a-stitching;
I fancy she was trim and neat,
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